Guignol: Life and Times of the Puppetmaster
by Acolyte Of Chaos
Summary: Everyone has a story, even if it isn't well known. How does a person go from a normal existence to being the most skilled and deadly showman on the planet? Follow young Emilio as he makes friends, falls in love... and becomes the creepiest old man to ever
1. Prologue

Guignol: The Life and Times of Leonof the Puppetmaster

A _Trigun Maximum _Fanfic by The Acolyte of Chaos

Summary: Everyone has a story, even if it isn't well-known. How does a person go fromleading a normal existance to being the most skilled (and deadly) showman on the planet? Follow young Emilio as he makes friends, falls in love, experiences tragedy, plays with dolls, and becomes the creepiest old man ever to walk the face of Gunsmoke.

Disclaimer: I don't own Trigun, Leonof, or anything else associated with them. I have the complete DVD collection, and all the mangas that have been released in English, but that's about it. Not only that, but I don't have a job, so suing me is pointless.

Spoiler Level: Low at first, but the spoilers will start coming towards the middle of the story. The last chapters, of course, will completelyruin Trigun Maximum 3 for you if you haven't read it already.

Genre: Drama/Tragedy. Anyone familiar with the manga should be nodding their heads here.

Pairings: Emilio/Isabel, others to be added at my discretion.

Author's Notes: I'm doing this because I can. I've decided to post as I write (against my better judgement), so any readers who like are gonna have to review to encourage me.

This is a _minor _crossover. It's not nesscessary to be familliar with any other universes in question though... my notes will tell you all you need to know without a bunch of spoilers, so fear not.

Also, this is manga-based, but you should still be able to follow along if you've seen the anime. The only major difference here is that the final battle between Leonof and Vash is different, and of course, there's Legato, the extra GHGs and all that, but that's stuff you can find out anywhere.

Alright, let's do this.

* * *

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide, no escape from reality.

Open your eyes, look up to the skies and see." - Queen (Freddie Mercury), "Bohemian Rhapsody"

Prologue: Darkness

_151 A.F. (After Fall)_

The man in the red trenchcoat stood in a field of scattered body parts. The blinding afternoon suns made him sweat and squint at once, and the effect was to make him look like he was weeping for his fallen victims.

He hadn't, however, killed anyone recently. In fact, the body parts lying on the ground were not actually human. Or dead. For that matter, they weren't even body parts.

He was crying, though. The constructs that had fallen to pieces before him were amazingly lifelike, and they had been constructed in the likenesses of people he considered his friends. When he looked at the devices later, he would marvel at their craftsmanship. Their skin looked and felt like real flesh, right down to the warmth of an actual human body. Their faces were capable of assuming any expression possible to an actual person. Their eyes were moist, as healthy organic eyes should be (when a doctor examined one of the puppets later, he found what were apparently tear ducts built into the eyes). In short, they looked exactly like an actual human being.

The monster standing across from the man in red remained expressionless. He looked far less human than his marionettes (he held a ventriloquist's doll in his left arm which, with its green hair and purple suit, only managed to make its holder look even more lifeless by comparison). Although it was unlikely, Vash thought it was technically possible that the man in the black coat and funny looking top hat had never learned about emotion of any kind. It was possible to get depressed just looking at him. His lips were so thin, his face so utterly blank, that had he not had the fuzzy moustache, the gunslinger would have been hard-pressed to point out his adversary's mouth. When speech did come from those lifeless-looking lips, the effect was startling.

"Welcome to the puppet show," the man said, in a rather conversational tone of voice.

There was a pause of a couple of seconds here to let his not-quite captive audience speak. When neither Vash nor his traveling companion spoke up in that short time, the man continued. This would most likely be the zenith of his existence, the defining moment of his entire life, and he'd be damned if he spent the moment staring at his foe in an awkward silence.

"I am Gung-Ho-Gun Number Four, Leonof the Puppetmaster. Again, I welcome you to the puppet show."

When his target did not respond (a couple of tears rolled down Vash's cheek, but the gunslinger said nothing), Leonof spoke again.

"Vash the Stampede, you are magnificent. A splendid audience. Merely with the artful technique of my fingertips, you cry, shocked, from the bottom of your heart. Truly magnificent. I..."

The priest chose that moment to open fire with his massive gun. Leonof had been completely aware of the priest's signature weapon (the huge, cross-shaped, canvas-wrapped bundle was impossible to miss), but it was amazing to see him draw it so quickly.

"Sorry, you sick bastard, but playtime ends here," the priest said, staring at the smashed ruins of the tree Leonof had been standing by.

The puppetmaster, however, remained alive and well. With a twitch of a finger, one of the more than four thousand strings he used to manipulate his puppets had whipped around the massive, cross-shaped submachine gun's barrel and pulled it down. The gun fired, but its intended target was untouched. Leonof was irritated regardless.

"Now, now," he mocked, "that is my line." He looked down at the dummy he was holding and flinched. It was a really good thing he kept spare parts on hand...

"Your barrel is off center," he said, holding up his now mangled doll, "You have to aim higher. You damaged Unica."

"Damn..." the priest swore under his breath. He raised the cross-gun to fire again.

_He appears to be merely a meek, timid old man, _he thought (marginally concerned that said old man apparently wasn't worried about the shots that had come less than three feet from his chest), _but he's really a member of the Gung-Ho-Guns? _

* * *

Well, what do you think? I apologize for the first few chapters, which will have a lot of setup, but I'll do my best to make it interesting. Bear with me for a few chapters, and I think you'll find it worth the trouble. You know, Stephen King never has to say that... Oh well. 


	2. Part 1: Clotho

Part 1: Clotho (The Weaver)

* * *

"My purpose is to tell of bodies which have been transformed into shapes of a different kind. You heavenly powers, since you were responsible for these changes, as for all else, look favourably upon my attempts, and spin an unbroken thread of verse, from the earliest beginnings of the world, down to my own times."- Ovid, _Metamorphoses_

* * *

Everyone has a story, no matter how obscure his or her place in history. This fact is well known and widely ignored. In many cases, a life story is left unexamined because the person starring in it, quite frankly, just isn't very interesting. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever written a bestselling novel about a man who has an average childhood, finds steady work in an average job, raises a normal family with no spectacular failures or phenomenal successes, gets his retirement fund together and retires at the standard age, grows old with no incredible good health or horrible diseases, and dies a natural death. It sounds cruel to say it, but an average life is average for a reason. The middle of the bell curve is never particularly interesting. This doesn't mean that the average, ordinary person is a bad (or even dull or boring) person, it just means that a book will probably never be written about them, and no movie will ever showcase their life.

Others could be well known if they wished to be. However, due to reasons of their own, they shun the limelight and embrace obscurity. It is obvious why some wish to avoid the public eye, but those who avoid fame don't have to be evil. Evil hides in the darkness, but that doesn't mean that those who wear sunglasses and sunscreen at the beach are really vampires in disguise.

There is a third reason. Winners write history. This is a fact of life. If it seems unfair or depressing, too bad. In any major conflict, the losers are left in a position less than ideal for arguing their viewpoint. Sometimes this is good. No one really wants to read any alternative Nazi history book praising Hitler's final solution. Sometimes this is bad, though. Good people can be silenced too. And killing evil before it can offer explanation ends one threat, but does nothing for the rest.

It's a lot like trying to kill fire ants. You need to know how they operate to kill them (of course, fire ants are far harder to kill than the darkness of the human heart, but the comparison is valid).

In other words, you've gotta read the story to know how it ends. You can skip ahead, but the effect just isn't the same.

Shall we begin?


	3. A Birthday Present

Chapter 1: A Birthday Present

* * *

Disclaimer: The first names of the characters here, with the exception of Emilio's father, belong to Nightow.I've made up specifics about them, so I guess that... they're sort of mine? I don't know. Whatever. I own nothing.

* * *

"For know you, that your gold and marble city of wonder is only the sum of what you have seen and loved in youth." - Nyarlathotep, _The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath_

* * *

_72 A.F. _

"Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you..."

The singing was enthusiastic. It was cheerful. The fact that it was far enough off tune to kill small animals was irrelevant. If anything, this made it more endearing to those present. Even the family cat, a cute, mostly black thing with a calico ear, was yowling along (although whether this was in joy or pain would be hard to say). A red-headed, fair-skinned boy sat at the head of the table, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Happy Birthday dear Emilio! Happy Birthday to youuuuuuuuuuuu!"

The boy whose birthday was being celebrated was either slightly less than four or exactly seven years old depending on which of the two Gunsmoke calendars were used to calculate his age. Many places throughout history have used two ways of keeping track of the dates at once, but the inhabitants of Gunsmoke faced a rather perplexing chronological problem the moment they stepped foot onto the brave new world they had been forced to exist in. Namely, the problem of how to reconcile the (approximately) 643 twenty-six hour days it took their rather dusty new planet to travel around its twin suns with the 365 twenty-four hour days their minds were used to. In the end they had decided to keep their old calendar for things like holidays, birthdays, and keeping track of dates while the Gunsmoke calendar was used to determine things like agriculture, astronomy and a whole bunch of other things the average person really didn't care about (farming was nearly impossible on the desert planet, and astronomy was nothing more than a useless hobby to people who had to almost literally fertilize the ground with their own blood to survive).

Emilio Triballus didn't know any of this. He only knew that his dad had woken him up before the suns had come up to tell him that he was now seven years old, and that his dad and mom had agreed that he was responsible enough to help in his father's bakery (though there had been much debating over the proximity of ovens and sharp objects). He had been expecting this; his dad had been mentioning giving him some stuff to do in the bakery with him after school, but being woken up before the suns to receive a special breakfast and being told that he would be paid for the time spent in the bakery (which was itself an honor he had fought long and hard to earn) was something else. And now a cake (homemade, of course), and presents. Lots of presents. His father had elected to homeschool him rather than place him in one of the dubious public schools available in town, but Emilio had never been particularly introverted, and he had made plenty of friends. Friends were good to have any time of the year, he reasoned in his childish way, but they were great to have on a birthday. The presents were wrapped in all sorts of shiny paper, glittering in the late afternoon sunlight. He wondered which to open first, and was so lost in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice when his dad cut and offered him the ceremonial first piece of cake. It took a nudge from his mom to snap him out of it.

"Wha... Oh, sorry," he fumbled as his dad pressed the plate of cake into his son's hands. This was good for a laugh from the guests, and he blushed slightly.

* * *

Joseph Triballus hadn't really known what to get his son for his seventh birthday. So when he walked into Shinita's General Store a week before the party to see what could be had, he was lost. Utterly lost. 

"Hello, Joseph." Shinita made it a habit to greet his most regular customers by name, and Joseph had been coming to buy groceries every Wednesday (minus the ones when he was sick or the store was closed) for nearly nine years. This was a Monday, but Shinita was aware that things came up. "What do you need?"

"A birthday present for Emilio."

Shinita chuckled.

"What's so funny?" the baker asked, feeling slightly defensive.

"I feel stupid for even asking. You've done this every year for the past six years. You even know what you're doing about a party?"

"Uhhhh..."

"Nevermind. Maria handed me an invitation last week anyhow. You need a present. What do you think he wants?"

"You got an invitation last week!" Joseph wailed, "I didn't remember it until this morning!"

"Calm down. You've got a week to get something..."

It was useless to try to talk him out of his panic though. The sad, disorganized man was zooming up and down the aisles. Shinita decided on a more direct method.

He walked calmly over to the baker, grabbed him, spun him around, looked him in the eye (being all of five-foot-three-inches in height, he had to grab Joseph's collar and drag him down to get the full effect), and screamed.

"CALM DOWN!"

This seemed to have the desired effect. Shinita didn't look like the screaming type, despite the fact that he couldn't keep hired help (he had two people working for him at a time) to help him run the small store for more than a year. The record, in fact, was eleven months and twenty-three days, and that had ended with Shinita hurling a barrel of beef jerky at the poor slob and shrieking about what the ex-employee's fate would be if he ever reentered the store in very precise (and obscene) terms. It had happened on a Wednesday, and Joseph had been present at the time (he hadn't known what some of the words meant, and he still wasn't sure if that had been a correct use of the word "disembowel").

"Joseph, listen to me. I keep toys, models, and anything else like that on aisle three. Look there. And if you can't find anything..." he shrugged, "you're a friend. And a regular customer. You can go to another store every once and awhile and not offend me."

Joseph meanwhile, was already on aisle three.

"Man, you're fast. You've got a week, thirty seconds ain't gonna make that big a deal."

"This is perfect!"

Shinita frowned. Joseph Triballus usually took his sweet time shopping. He didn't move slowly, only without haste. Nonetheless, for him to find something so quickly was astounding.

"What's perfect?"

Joseph picked the item up and took it to the front of the store. Shinita stared.

The item held by the baker looked good. It was quite obviously handcrafted, and the craftsman had quite obviously known what he was doing. Emilio was a creative kid; he'd have all kinds of fun with something like that. Over the years, Joseph and Shinita had evolved from a customer/salesman relationship to honest-to-God friendship, and the retailer felt sure he and his family would be invited to all sorts of little productions involving the thing. But he was uneasy.

He rang Joseph up without mentioning any of that. The item wasn't marked, so he made up a price ($$150 seemed about right, carved out of wood as it was, he sold it to Joseph for $$75 saying that it was on clearance). He didn't tell the baker that the reason the item had been unmarked had been because he had never seen it before in his life. He had done some straightening on aisle three earlier in the day, and he hadn't noticed it.

_Oh shut up,_ he told himself,_ you just missed it before. Maybe it was under some other stuff. _

Not-quite-rational thoughts rose in his brain and were squelched. By the time of the party, he was completely fine with it.

* * *

The cake was pretty good. Some say that familiarity breeds contempt, and Emilio was certainly familiar with his father's cakes, but this one was perhaps as close as a person could come to literal death by chocolate. It wasn't the kind of thing his dad brought home every night. His friends knew it too. His best friend, Matthew and Olivia, Matthew's little sister, were both eating like the cake would disintegrate if left alone for more than five seconds (Joseph suspected they'd just heard the Bible story of how God provided the Israelites with manna from heaven that would rot in a day). They would feel awful later, but for the moment they were on top of the world. 

Shinita and Miranda, his wife, sat on the Triballus family couch, engaged in a good-natured squabble about the rather large amount of chip dip Shinita had taken. He insisted it was fine; if you were invited to the party and brought the kid a present, you were good to go. She countered that the "good to go" he spoke of did not extend to half a container of ranch dip. Emilio didn't know all that his father did about Shinita's assistants, but he often wondered how Mr. and Ms. Yanez managed to get along all the time. They seemed so... different. He was constantly annoyed, easily frustrated, and incredibly sarcastic, though he balanced it out with a fair amount of intelligence, a good sense of humor, and an extraordinary capacity for charity. She was a born optimist, who, while not stupid by any means (she was rather smart, actually), was rather literal-minded. They both enjoyed debating however, and they could out-logic nearly anyone who dared to take the opposing side of an arguement. As a result of this, Shinita's General Store had become an informal meeting place for the town's would-be philosophers.

Their daughter, Yuuno, two years old and at peace with the world, was eating a little piece of cake happily. She had seen this before.

The rest of the guests were scattered throughout the house. Shinita's son Galpez sat by Matthew. He was two years younger than Emilio (his fifth birthday had been last month), and he nearly worshipped Emilio and Matthew. Pfeiffer, Joseph's part-time assistant, sat in the kitchen joking with Maria about how he was going to quit as soon as he found the box of Triballus family recipes. Isabel, his daughter, sat beside him eating cake. She had been eight for three months now, but the age difference wasn't bothering her; the fact that not a single person would let her near their hair with a curling iron was responsible for that. She couldn't understand why. It was a nice curling iron.

And then it happened. The one moment everyone ("everyone" meaning Emilio) had been waiting for.

"Alright, gather around. It's time for presents!" Maria announced.

* * *

It watched the party from outside of town. 

Everything seemed to be going well. Of course, it wasn't familiar with the human custom of celebrating the aniversery of one's birth (it wasn't even sure how old it was, let alone when it's birth would have happened on the human calender), but it didn't think there could be much to it. If there was a ritual to be followed, it seemed to be rather relaxed (of course, the apparently bad singing and random conversation of the guests could be strictly proscribed). Nevertheless, it was curious, so it watched.

The humans were gathering around a table filled with packages. Ah. It had researched this part extensively. This was the part where the friends and family of the celebrated person ritually presented him or her (or other) with presents. This seemed strange to it, because the presents were things that the celebrant could acquire for him/her/itself. It thought much exchanging might be saved if the participants simply all bought themselves a present every time there was a party of this nature.

The boy of the hour opened the presents with great enthusiasm, though not all of them were to his liking. Another noteworthy aspect of the ritual was that even if the boy's displeasure with the offering was easily sensed, he had to reply to the effect that the gift was acceptable. It also noted that the boy's displeasure seemed to be evoked by the more practical of the gifts, such as clothing. This was strange, but there was probably a perfectly good reason for this, if it wished to look.

It shifted. Features rearranged themselves and it became a he.

If you asked him why he watched the party, he would have had no answer. He did many things simply because he felt like it, and this sense had always been rather trustworthy. However, he began to grow impatient as the boy waded through the sea of gifts to get to his father's offering. He nearly lost control of his/its form once or twice while it waited for the child (this was _important_, he didn't know why, but it was).

Finally, the boy reached his father's gift. The creature fastened his attention on the scene before him. This would be worth watching.

* * *

Emilio opened his dad's present last, not knowing what to expect. His dad had a history of getting questionable presents. He would remember the baby sand rat (a omnivorous rodent-like creature that could grow to be four feet long) with mixed laughter and horror until his death ("No one told _me_ they used poison to paralyze their prey..." Joseph had said). This was different. 

He lifted the thing out of its box. He looked at it for a second. It looked like...

"A doll?" He was confused. He certainly hadn't asked for a doll. And if that was what it was, it wasn't even a nice doll. Just plain wood in the shape of a miniature person, with bendable joints. No soldier outfit or toy gun or anything. And all those strings... what for?

"It's a puppet," Joseph explained after a short pause. He took the strings from the boy and attempted to demonstrate. It was probably for the best that Joseph was bad at puppetry. What was meant to be a quirky little dance (Joseph believed very firmly in preserving ancient Earth traditions, and so had attempted to learn the macarena from an old book on dancing) turned into deadly puppet kung-fu. Emilio was impressed.

"Cool! What's his name?"

"His name?" Joseph asked.

"He has to have a name. Remember when that guy came to church and he had the one on his lap named Howie?"

Joseph actually _did_ remember that. Of course, that had been a ventriloquist's doll, but people probably named marionettes too.

"His name is Leonof Unica Donatello da Medeci." That sounded good.

* * *

The monster grinned.

* * *

PREVIEW 

Emilio: Mr. Bluesummers and his friends are great. I thought it might be weird, having a blind Sunday School teacher, but he isn't so different from the rest of us. But he has something on his mind. You can tell by the way he opens every class with the same prayer: peace, safety, the usual things, but he means them. He appreciates them. He thanks God every time we all show up alive. And the way he talks about God, you'd think they were penpals. I never knew you could learn such things in...

NEXT CHAPTER: SUNDAY SCHOOL


	4. Sunday School

Chapter 2: Sunday School

* * *

Author's Note: I'm going to save myself some trouble. I'll claim or disclaim things in the chapter they first appear in, and note things as they pop up. No repetitive disclaimers here. I'm innovative. 

Also, if you feel uncomfortable with religious topics, you might not care for this story. I don't get preachy (I have more respect for my audience thanto try to win converts with a fanfic), but religious themes show up all throughout the story. I don't necessarily agree with the views expressed by the characters; sometimes I do, sometimes I don't, and it shouldn't makemuch of adifference in how I write. Just covering myself, so no one can get offended and say I'm preaching.

Disclaimer: I don't own the last names of Gelton, Raymond, or Pfeiffer. The first person to recognize them (Hint: The first comes out of left field, the last two have a source in common) gets a metaphorical cookie. 

What I DO Own: Allegro/Needles, Gelton, and Cameron's father (when he shows up) are mine. Don't steal.

* * *

"Father Abraham, 

Had many sons

Many sons had Father Abraham

I am one of them,

And so are you

So let's go praise the Lord!" - Sunday School song

* * *

_75 A.F. _

"...so, that's the book of Job. We've spent a month on it and I know some of you were about about to fall asleep by week three, but I hope you all got something out of it..."

The Sunday School teacher paused for a moment. Job was a hard book to teach to ten-year-olds, but he thought it might actually be harder to teach it to adults. The idea of God as a mystical Santa Claus type who would always shower them with blessings and keep them away from harm (if they were good) was precious to children, but it had already become concrete in adults who had held it their entire lives believing it. And the clergy had the nerve to wonder why some people blamed God for trouble and lost their faith when something bad happened. It was important to teach the children the truth. God loves you, but he won't give you a new bicycle that you can't afford, that sort of thing. Of course, Job had a happy ending, and that was good, because it taught them that God did _want _the best for everyone, even if He wasn't going to rearrange the cosmos to give everybody what they deserved. Now, if they had understood that, he was good.

"Let's all say something we learned," he said, hoping for a reaction. This was the moment of truth...

"I learned that God will make sure we all come out all right even if bad things happen, Mr. Bluesummers," said Cameron. Ten, and already devoloping facial hair. The teacher would have given a great deal to learn what the boy's parents were feeding him.

Well, his answer was a start, anyway.

"I learned that God doesn't ever abandon us," Isabel added. She was always a month short of being allowed into the next grade, so she was nearly a year older than everyone else. She was cocky, but Bluesummers thought the age difference probably accounted for some of it. Not all, but some of it. The rest came from being the only child of an indulgent father. Pfeiffer and his child were, the Sunday School teacher had decided, headed for a throttling. The only question was from who.

Melissa spoke up next. That was surprising, she was one of the quiet ones, and could usually be found hiding behind Isabel. But, God bless her, if she wanted to speak, Allegro T. Bluesummers would be happy to oblige.

"Job's friends were wrong, but God let them finish talking. He didn't interupt them. He..." she searched for the words. Finally she gave up. "I don't know how to say it."

"That's okay," said Allegro, " I think you've made a very good point. Anyone else?"

"Well," Matthew said, "Leviathan was a really cool way to show Job how much God had to do. And... I noticed that God forgave Job's friends after Job prayed for them."

"And what do you think of that?"

"I thought we each had to choose God for ourselves."

"Of course. And it's good that you're questioning things, because that helps you grow. You see, Job's friends did want to do better. But sometimes we need a little help, I guess. They might or might not have got into Heaven without Job. I don't know for sure, but did that help any?"

Matthew nodded.

Emilio just sat at the back of the class and stared at nothing. Allegro could not see but nevertheless felt the boy sulk, and nearly said something. Emilio was his best student, it was usually a pain to get him to shut up. Something was wrong.

* * *

Allegro, white cane in hand, tapped his way down the stone steps of the church toward the boy. There was no hesitation in his step, if not for the ever-present dark glasses and cane, no one would have recognized him as blind on first sight. Emilio, in fact, had thought the glasses were just a fashion statement until he asked his father how Mr. Bluesummers could see through them. 

The boy stood off to one side while Joseph talked with a couple of his friends. Allegro recognized the voices. Pfeiffer Sweeney and Raymond Prufrock. Both okay people, if you ignored the one's annoying daughter and the other's tendency to be distracted by shiny objects. Bluesummers grinned. No wonder Emilio felt left out.

"How's the Globe coming?" he said.

Emilio looked up with a jolt. He was certain he had the world's stealthiest Sunday School teacher.

"It's going pretty well."

"And you're going to do Shakespeare in it?"

"Not just Shakespeare, but the first play is gonna be Macbeth, yeah."

"And Leonof gets the lead?"

"Of course, Mr. Bluesummers. He's perfect for it."

Allegro grimaced. "Look boy, I've told you a thousand times, call me Allegro. Or Needles. Or even (God forbid) Al. But "Mista Bluesummers" makes me sound like a really cheerful mobster."

Emilio laughed. "Okay _Needles_. How'd you get that nickname anyway?"

"For my pointed wit, and my use of a knuckle to the funnybone for people that annoy me. Fitting, huh?"

"Fitting."

"You were really quiet today Emilio."

"So?"

"Is there something you'd like to talk about? As one of your spiritual counselers, I'd be amiss if I didn't offer a sympathetic ear."

Emilio paused and thought about it for a moment.

"Mr. Blue - err, Needles?"

"Yes?"

"One thing bothers me about the book of Job. At the very beginning. I thought it would be explained before the end, but it wasn't."

"What is that?"

"Why is _Satan_ in Heaven?"

"Now you're thinking, kid," Allegro replied. He did not put his hand on the boy's shoulder or affectionately ruffle his hair. He was trying to help Emilio, not make him feel like a dog. For that matter, there were many dogs that he would not patronize in such a manner.

"Well, why?"

"Emilio, that's the ten-million double-dollar question. If I could answer that, I wouldn't be teaching Sunday School. I'd be God."

"So I just have to pretend like it doesn't matter? Why doesn't God just... smite him, or something?"

"The common explanation is that if God smote Satan, everyone would serve God, but only out of fear. That help any?"

"...a little." Emilio said. He didn't sound convinced.

"Doesn't help me a lot either," Allegro responded, "But I'll tell you what I think. Remember Leviathan?"

"Yeah."

"When God was talking about defeating Leviathan, He was asking Job to do something that He did daily."

"Defeat... evil?"

"Bingo. Of course, you could take Leviathan literally, but that's a whole other story. Anyway, notice how God talks about Leviathan. Like He has a great deal of work to do to beat him."

"God can't smite Satan?"

"I'm certain He could, but what then? Smite _everyone_ who sins? Even if God were to start with the fallen angels and work his way down, we'd all be dead by next Thursday."

Emilio laughed. This cheered Needles up. For a moment he'd thought the boy was doomed to a life of philosophy (in this sense, the science of knowing too much for one's own good).

"Don't worry about it Emilio," Allegro said, grinning, "Everyone will get theirs in the end. Until then..."

"God's gonna keep out of it? Hey, that explains why he didn't smack Job's friends. But then..."

"Yes?"

"Job's friends got another chance. Does that mean that there's a last chance on Judgement Day?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Hey, when will the Globe have its first show?"

"Next month if I get it done on time. Why?"

"Because I have a present for you. Don't tell anyone," he rumaged through a large sack containing his Bible and other study materials. "Well, you'll have to tell Matthew and Galpez if they're helping you put the show on, and there's no reason not to tell your parents, but don't tell anyone else, because then everyone else in the class will be jealous." He pulled out a particularly thick leather-bound book. Allegro was proud of this book. It was just a copy he'd had printed from his original, but it was still priceless. It represented life. Civilization. Culture. Nobility. And if mankind could make a copy of this book, then maybe, just maybe, it could make something out of this desert planet. Giving it to the kid represented driving back the darkness, not going gentle into the good night, and spitting in the death angel's face. It was that important.

"Hey, _The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare_! Thanks!"

It was also nice to be appreciated. Allegro slunk off, grinning.

* * *

"You gave him _The Complete Works Of William Shakespeare_?" Gelton asked him when they arrived home. "That kid's gonna be screwed up. I can feel it." 

Needles ignored him. Their working arrangement was very simple; in return for a steady income and a sense of purpose, the 7' 2" behemoth lived with the blind man, guided him through unfamiliar places, and cooked for him, something Allegro was unable to do despite his self-suficiency in other areas. Some of the visually handicapped had seeing-eye dogs. Needles had a seeing-eye housekeeper.

They had been good friends well before Allegro had lost his sight in what he refered to publicly as "an unfortunate job-related accident" and privately as "that bastard's claw came out of _nowhere._" Their relationship hadn't changed much, except for Allegro's newfound dependence on someone else to manage a skillet.

If Gelton Kojiro looked like Needles remembered him (and there was no reason for him not to) then in addition to being tall, he was also muscular, with dark eyes and long black hair. Allegro had never seen a picture of Jesus, but he imagined that if his object of worship was more than a foot taller than usually depicted and built like Adonis, the result would be, if not Gelton, than at least his cousin.

"Hello Needles, Gunsmoke to Needles, your position on the fifth moon is perilious, abort the mission immeadiately!"

Needles looked in the direction of the voice with a start. He hadn't realized his mind was wandering.

"What did you say?"

"I asked if you thought it was even slightly creepy that the kid has names for all ten of his puppets, and particular parts that each one can play... and Leonof _always_ gets the lead, unless it's a female lead, in which case Leonof gets the most important male part?" He paused to get a breath, than realized something.

"Oh God, now I'm refering to it by name!"

"Calm down, Gelton, the boy is going through a phase. An eccentric phase to be sure, but there are much worse things than eccentric, as we both know."

"That's what I'm talking about Needles. Remember Staccato at the end?"

"Is my hair still blue? But Thrall was a special case. How dare you compare a child's hobby to my warped sibling's schizophrenia!"

"I don't like seeing people hurt when a "special case" snaps. Remember your other brother? The one that was laying in a pool of his own blood while Thrall did a happy dance? Staccato was _eating_ your twin's arm, Needles! Does that affect you at all!"

"Of course it does," Allegro replied quietly, "I still have nightmares about it. But you're being paranoid. Not everyone who talks to themselves is a psychopath. Emilio's found something be likes. And if doesn't pass, than he has a brilliant career as a showman ahead of him." That was most definitely true. Emilio had taken to puppeteering like Beethoven had taken to piano.

Gelton stared at nothing for a moment.

"Alright, you're absolutely right, I'm being paranoid. We've all got our psychological scars. But... a ten year old reading _Shakespeare_?"

"You're just jealous because you were still mastering 'See Spot Run' at that age."

"I oughta walk you into a wall."

* * *

"Dad, look what Mr. Bluesummers gave me!" 

Joseph stared at the book. Gunsmoke's inhabitants had not reverted so far that they had lost the printing press, but someone who would just give away a leather-bound copy of Shakespeare? The man was mad. Generous, but mad.

"Isn't it cool?" continued Emilio, oblivious to his father's bulging eyes.

"It's great," Joseph managed.

"I'm gonna go read 'Hamlet'!" With that, the boy leapt away.

Joseph continued to stare. He wondered if giving his son that copy of Macbeth had been such a good idea. When Emilio had turned out to be a natural puppeteer, Joseph had decided to encourage the hobby. This had simply involved buying him a few more puppets, giving him a couple of plays for inspiration, and turning him loose. And now Emilio had recruited half of the kids in his neighborhood to help him build "The Globe," a puppet-theatre homage to William Shakespeare. Galpez and Matthew had both been drafted to help when there were more than two marionettes on stage at once, and Isabel was trying her best to learn the craft. According to Emilio, she'd be ready to help out in the shows in time for the The Globe's opening. Another friend, Cameron, was getting his dad to provide them with tools and materials. Even Melissa, Isabel's terminally shy best friend, would be helping by making scenery. Several adults, including Cameron's father and two friends of the mad Sunday School teacher, were supervising and helping to lift the concrete blocks that would serve as a stage in a world where wood was a scarcity.

He had no idea how Emilio had organized this, but surely enough he had. Construction on the thing only took place when the adults could get together, once or twice a week, but even so... it was coming along nicely. And the adults were the only ones lifting heavy or sharp objects. He couldn't explain the bad feeling he had whenever he looked at the thing. Except...

Except he could explain some of it. Twice, he had seen a shirtless man wearing what looked the bottom half of a red trenchcoat, watching the proceedings. It wasn't like the man had been leering at one of the children with a predatory grin; he'd just been leaning against a post, watching with a half-interested eye. Both sightings had been at about the time of day people were getting off work, so maybe he was just pausing in his walk home to see what was going on. It was plausible.

But going shirtless was not something done lightly on Gunsmoke. Contrary to popular opinion, the twin suns had little to do with the planet's desertification; any planet too hot for oceans to exist would almost certainly boil humans alive in their own blood. Most regions of the desert planet, with the exceptions of the arctic and equatorial regions, mantained an average temperature of eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The lack of oceans was due to unfortunate geography that had put most of the water in underground reseviors. Even so... there _were _two suns. Skin cancer, which had nearly been cured before humanity left Earth, was now the third highest killer among the deadly diseases. At the very least, anyone who spent more than fifteen minutes sunbathing would certainly be severely sunburned.

So what kind of person walked home shirtless? And the man wasn't even pink! He had a nice tan, which didn't look painful at all. It was weird. The next time he saw the man (_If there is a next time_, he thought, rather hopefully), he would say something. Something stern. Forbidding. "Why don't you go home and get a shirt before coming to stare at people?" might work.

Possibly.

* * *

"Gelton." Allegro's voice was soft, but carried very well. 

"Yes?"

"Write up an invitation. For the boy and his parents. I want to meet the parents."

Gelton was acquainted with that tone of voice, and didn't like it. It usually didn't bode well.

"You haven't met Joseph? The baker?"

"In church. Not an ideal place to find out what they're really like. Ideally, to find out what someone truly is you must observe them while they are alone. But if that is not possible..."

"Then put them off balance, see how they act in unfamiliar places, situations, etc... And you think they'll be themselves in your house?"

"Of course not. But if you're lost in the woods, and you have a compass that points south instead of north, you don't throw it away..."

"For when?"

"Next Tuesday. They'll be free."

Gelton wrote the invitation.

* * *

PREVIEW: 

Joseph: A haunted man has invited my family to dinner. His house is filled with pictures he can no longer see. From his easy chair, he has an aura of command, but his face looks weary and used up. He speaks of God to my son, and his sincerity is undoubtable, but the cheerful grin he favors his students with doesn't seem cheerful at second glance. I like him regardless. Whatever inner demons gnaw him, he is fighting them, and hopefully winning. Perhaps I can help by having...

NEXT CHAPTER: Dinner with Needles


	5. Dinner With Needles

Chapter Three: Dinner With Needles

Disclaimer: Guess who shows up in this chapter that I don't own? If you can't tell who I'm talking about after reading the chapter, then you probably shouldn't be reading this (to be fair, those who haven't read the manga may not recognize the third passenger in the car, but other then that...). The subjects of the statues belong to H. P. Lovecraft, although the old man in the second sculpture was based on Irish folklore. The mecha/chariot isn't mine either. Fans of the orginal _Wild Arms_ may recognize it as the golem Berial. Lastly (and I shouldn't even have to say this, but I will), I don't own any of the lines Emilio quotes from Shakespeare.

Things I DO Own: Kayin, please stand up. Thank you. (Points to OC) He's MINE. Not that you'll want him anyway, but... The pursuer in Berial is also mine, and he was probably invented while I was in a bad mood.

Author's Note: Starting with the reviews for my last post, I'll be responding to reviews on Xanga. The link to my page is on my profile. I won't promise to reply to everything, but I'll try to do as much as I can. Flames will be torn apart and mocked ruthlessly. Thank you.

* * *

"And in the master's chambers, they gather for the feast 

They stab it with their steely knives, but they just can't kill the beast." - The Eagles, "Hotel California"

* * *

As has already been insinuated, Allegro T. Bluesummers was not a typical person. Some might argue that the "typical person" does not exist, but Allegro had a long history of not conforming to a wide range of normal, and he wasn't about to start breaking trends now. 

Case in point. His dreams were not normal.

The nightmare he was currently having seemed in many points a typical one until examined more closely. In it, he was running from something. Many people have had that dream; they're running from something, they don't know what, and they're going to get caught because they can't move fast enough. Needles departed from this norm in two ways.

One, he knew exactly what he was running from. This didn't make things any better.

Two, he was running like he'd been shot from a catapult. Unfortunately, the thing behind him was equaling his speed.

_How is he moving so fast?_ Needles thought, _He can't even stand up! _

"I'm in my chariot now, Neeeeeeeedlesh!"

_Oh shit._

The area he was being chased through would have been a nice place to have a pleasant dream in. It would have been nice to just daydream about it. Sadly, Allegro could no longer envision this place during his waking hours; he had been without sight so long that the look of things had faded from his conscious mind. And he never saw this place in nice dreams. But in his nightmares, he could see.

It was a savannah. Grassland all around, occasionally dotted with a waterhole to break the monotony. It was beautiful. Lush. And absolutely perfect for getting run over in.

_He's toying with me now,_ Allegro realized. _That thing can make 250 miles an hour on level terrain._ The flat land all around him was beautiful, but it mocked him. No hope. Except...

There were trees! A forest, the beginings of a jungle! If he got to it, his persuer would have to slow, and he could escape!

He ran for it. The chariot followed.

It was about thirty feet tall, made of some seamless metal. Blue death wheeling across the plains. It did look like a chariot, especially if the person looking at it noted the twenty foot diameter wheels (complete with very traditional looking spokes), not to mention the huge lances attached to the side, looking for all the world like two gigantic bladed arms.

Needles swerved, zigged, zagged, and almost breakdanced across the field.

_Almost there, _he thought, _almost there._

Both lances split into three sections, revealing the massive missile launchers within. The mad driver put the vehicle into a spin, shooting past his quarry before coming to a stop.

Needles knew what came next. He was already dodging when ports on the mecha's front opened to reveal a dozen machine guns. They roared for a full thirty seconds, nevermind the fact that their target was moving (this was about destruction and fear, death would come in time). Meanwhile, Allegro was making the best of the moment to run like hell for the treeline.

It was a vailiant attempt. But the golem's pilot was done playing. A scream of rage came from the madman, and then an explosion. And then Needles was flying. He came to the abrupt realization that missiles had hit the ground behind him and exploded, and that he was being thrown through the air by the force of the blast. Not good.

The golem accelerated. It was now moving foward faster than Needles was falling. Much faster.

As he flipped head over heels on his way to the ground, he saw the thing charging at him. He closed his eyes, slipping back into the familiar darkness. He braced for impact, the roar of the great machine and the screams of the mad pilot ringing in his ears.

It hit him moving at 225 miles per hour. He was not smashed or splattered so much as disintegrated.

* * *

He awoke, gasping. No dramatic scream. The gasps weren't even very loud. He was, however, bathing in a pool of his own sweat. 

He hadn't had that dream in a long while. And he'd thought he was doing so well. He sat up, patting the mask over his ruined eyes to make sure it was there. He wondered what had brought his nightmare on only for a moment. He felt it the way normal people felt an ulcer on their gum, not horribly painful, but _there_, and not leaving anytime soon.

He tried his damnest to ignore it. It didn't work. It was very persistantly coming from outside town, trying to contact him. The bastard couldn't wait untill morning like most sane beings. Nooooooo...

He managed to hold out for forty-five minutes. It was a good try, ruined mainly by the fact that he had woken up at three-thirty in the morning, and he (obviously) hadn't been sleeping well to begin with. Finally, the hope that his visitor would say what needed to be said and leave overcame his pride.

_Anyone who thinks having a sixth sense would be cool should get their wish_, he thought miserably,_ Just for a few days. _Then broadcasting:

_What do you want and why can't it wait until morning?_

_My my_,came the response, _You _are _in a bad mood. I merely wanted to speak to you. What are you doing that is so urgent you cannot speak to your flesh and blood?_

_Sleeping. Or trying very hard to._

_I'm sorry. I thought, however, that you would appreciate some good news._

_And what would _that_ be?_

_Master Knives is coming to your house tonight. That is, tonight in the sense of this being early morning. So you have plenty of time to prepare. Don't worry._

Telepathy was not something Needles had any great mastery over. He wasn't really all that good at it. So there was hope. Maybe he had misunderstood.

_Please repeat that. _A disbelieving psychic mumble.

_You will have the honor of hosting Master Knives tonight._

_I thought you said that_, Needles replied,_ I'll pass._

_You were not given a choice. This is an honor, Needles! _The voice sounded amazed that refusal could even be considered.

_Don't "Needles" me, Legato. I'm not in the mood. Today is Tuesday unless I'm sorely mistaken. I already have company coming tonight. And I _want_ to see them._

_Cancel._

_Your massa can kiss my ass, Uncle Tom. I wouldn't want to see him even if I was free._ Needles paused, waited. Three. Two. One.

_You impudent fool! What if the Magi had stayed home when they saw the Star of Bethlehem rise? A deity falls to our world, and you won't even nod your head in his direction! _The rage behind the voice was overpowering. Complete surrender was a repulsive idea, but so was the thought of another mass slaughter. Needles quickly ran through his options.

_I'll tell you what I can do, Legato._

_Yes? _Hopeful, but not too much. The rage had faded though.

_If your massa wants to talk, we can talk after my company leaves. It might actually be fun. I'll keep food heated, meet you out on my porch, and we'll have a midnight snack under the stars. Is that agreeable? _A long pause.

_Midnight, than? A bit dramatic._

_I thought you of all people would appreciate that. You're the dramatic one._

_What does that make you? The cute one?_

_The smart one. Now if you don't mind..._

_Of course not. I will give you time to prepare._

The presence faded. Allegro sighed. Alone with his own thoughts again, and what thoughts they were! One however, predominated.

"Gelton!" he yelled.

From across the house: "Yergh!"

"We're going to need another cheesecake."

* * *

Joseph hadn't known what to expect when he'd set out, family in tow, for Allegro's house. He hadn't really thought too much about it. He was the kind of person who didn't bother himself wondering about such things. He wasn't notably judgemental either, and he didn't gossip. So it said something when the dinner party Needles threw that night became the main topic of conversation at the Triballus house for the next week. 

The evening began with their arrival at the Bluesummers residence at six sharp (dinner, the invitation said, would begin at a quarter after). Maria had wanted to get there a bit earlier, but Joseph hadn't gotten home until nearly five-thirty. In a way that was good; the bakery was doing very well, but it also meant that he had very little time to shower and change. To further complicate matters, Joseph was now limping, because in his haste to find suitable clothing, he had stepped on the cat's tail. The cat had shown a remarkable lack of sympathy in its reaction.

Joseph recognized the person waiting for them on the doorstep; Kayin Bostalk, Cameron's father. What was he doing here? Well, obviously he'd been invited, but...

"Hello Joseph, Maria, Emilio," he said, shaking hands with each, "Laura couldn't make it, but Cam's inside with Raymond and Needles. Gelton's in the kitchen, finishing up our meal. It'll be good."

Kayin didn't look half as charming as he was. He was tall, thin, and posessed of scraggly dark hair that would never quite obey a comb. His facial hair grew quickly but never quite organized itself into a proper beard. It was only after he began speaking that people discovered that, dear God, he had charisma. Many were shocked to find themselves listening to and agreeing with him. Had he more ambition, he could have been mayor of the town. As he was, he was content to make a comfortable living giving music lessons (various instruments and singing; Kayin could play almost anything and was reputed to be a prodigy, but always downplayed the talent). Cameron simply followed in his father's wake.

Emilio walked up the stairs, uncertain. He'd never been invited to what his mother called a "grown-up party" before.

"So," Joseph was saying to Kayin, "what did your wife have going on?"

Emilio clutched Leonof as he looked around. He'd never been to his Sunday School teacher's house, but so far (from what he could see of the porch) it looked depressingly ordinary. Then again, maybe all the cool stuff was inside.

The door opened.

"Hey guys, what's taking so long?" Raymond asked, "Gelton's gonna freak if you guys don't get in there and tell him how you like your steak cooked. I told him to just make it medium, and too bad if you like it rarer, but he has such a prima donna 'I am an artiste' attitude about cooking that..."

It was at this point that Raymond noticed the entire Triballus familly (including the cat, who was still latched onto Joseph's leg) staring.

"What?" he asked, slightly confused.

* * *

It is probably worth mentioning something about the food sources Gunsmoke's humanity relies on for survival. 

In their infinite wisdom, the founders of Project SEEDS realized that, although they were seeking a planet where most if not all of the huddled human masses could live (and eat) in comfort, reality was not always so ideal. Therefore, they packed suitable food items. Cattle, pigs, sheep (good for wool as well), chickens, and yes, even salmon, which were stored in a massive live well. Thousands of different seeds for growing fruits, grains, and vegetables also made the "To Take" list, after all, man cannot live on beef alone.

These goods probably saved humanity when it crashed headlong into an oncoming planet. Gunsmoke was not quite a barren world (there were creatures like the thomases roaming the wastelands, plants designed to live in arid climates, and those who had hunted the massive sandworms and lived to tell about it said that the flesh was quite tasty), but it wasn't ideal for colonization. Luckily for mankind (and unfortunately for a certain genocidal maniac), the ship containing the livestock survived the fall, mostly unharmed. One of the first great tasks the survivors were faced with was creating reseviors for the fish.

That said, it was extremely hard to acquire beef. Not to mention expensive. The resources required to raise farm animals on the desert planet were massive. Salmon had proven fairly easy to introduce to underground lakes and harvest, and Gunsmoke's underground waterways already had food sources for them (the few remaining enviromentalists had, against all logic and self-preservation instincts, protested this action vigorously, but Gunsmoke's aquatic fauna had adapted to their new predators and/or food source magnificently). Cattle on the other hand, required grass. Which required a geoplant to be dedicated to growing a crop humans couldn't directly use. Of course, there were plants to do just that, but only in the very largest cities. As a result...

* * *

"An eight ounce steak costs $$175!" Joseph shrieked, "I can't pay for one, let alone three!" 

"Needles is paying," Raymond repeated calmly, "it's his treat. I believe it said that on the invitation right above RSVP."

"But we can't possibly accept a gift like that," protested Maria. "I mean, no offense, but we don't even know him that well. If he's lucked into something like that, he might be better off sharing with his close friends."

"Right," Raymond said. "Gelton, Kayin, and me. There's still some left over for you. Pfeiffer was invited too, but he couldn't come."

"But..." Joseph and Maria continued.

"I will be quite offended if you refuse my food after I've put Gelton through the stress of cooking for company. He takes it so seriously."

Everyone jumped. Allegro's stealth was enough to make Satan soil himself, if properly used. It wasn't something easily gotten used to.

"Why are you standing out here? The invitation included access to the inside of my house."

Everyone followed.

"Emilio, did you think to bring Leonof?" Allegro continued. "If you did, perhaps you would favor us with a preview of your play?"

"Sure!" Emilio said, then, as he looked at his parents, "Yes Sir."

"No need for formality right now. Just don't be openly rude."

"I won't," another glance at Dad and Mom, "Sir."

Needles chuckled.

The inside of the house was well-lit, if not exactly cheery. The main problem with the decoration was that it was rather plain. Not a lot of color. Needles, of course, had no use for bright, cheerful colors, but Joseph wondered why Gelton didn't do something for his own benefit. Breaking up the monotony were some pictures hung in the living room. Most of them were people posing beside weapons or machinery of some sort. A couple were group shots. A strange statue sat on the fireplace mantel. It disturbed the baker, although he couldn't say why. It looked to be equal parts human, squid, and dragon, but at the same time none of the above. Sitting there with wings outstreched. Horrible.

"Do you have an artistic temperment, Joseph?"

Joseph turned to face Allegro, realizing that he'd been staring at the statue for some time.

"Well, I take pride in my bread, but..."

"That might be it, than. That particular image seems to affect artists the most." He paused, thinking, "I invited a poet over once. He started choking when he saw it."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Then why do you have it out?" the baker asked, "If it has a bad effect on people?"

"I like it. It's also very rare, so I like to display it. And don't tell me it's more likely to get stolen here, I don't think anyone could. Do you?"

"No," Joseph managed.

"Glad we agree."

Gelton took that moment to interrupt.

"Dinner is served. Follow me to the dining room."

Emilio followed behind his father. He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, which made his disappointed expectations even more frustrating. It was an ordinary house. A poorly decorated ordinary house. What had he thought it was going to be though?

The dining room (and what Emilio could see of the kitchen) was nicer. This was where Gelton spent most of his time, and it showed in the design. Maybe Raymond was right about him being a prima donna artiste.

"Have you ever been here before Cameron?" Emilio whispered (he wasn't sure why, but whispering felt like the thing to do here).

"Once or twice. He has a library upstairs."

"Awesome!" Forgetting to whisper. The adults stared, except for Needles who just grinned.

"Yes, Emilio, I'll show it to you. It's actually called a study, but..." he shrugged.

"Thank you!"

"Now that I think of it, it would be a great place for you to give your preview." Needles continued as they took their seats.

As Gelton served the food, Joseph turned to Allegro: "Hey, you guys got any sauce or anything?"

"Why would you want that?" Allegro asked politely.

"For the steak."

Needles paused. Gelton nearly dropped the plates he was still holding.

"Needles," Gelton muttered, "please tell me I didn't hear that."

"Don't mind him Gelton," Needles replied. "I doubt very much that he gets an opportunity to eat like this often."

"So," the baker continued, oblivious, "that's a no?" Gelton turned to face him, teeth grinding.

"SILENCE, BLASPHEMER!"

* * *

The car sped across the desert. Actually, it looked more like someone had taken a sports car and a station wagon, combined them, and given the resulting hybrid a tank's armor. It got the job done though, it moved far faster though the wastelands then anyone expected. 

At the driver's behest, music filled the vehicle. Loud music. Mostly mid to late twentieth century rock and roll (though there were a few exceptions); right now the soothing voice of Jim Morrison and the Doors, maybe Pink Floyd or The Who next,maybe jump forward a few years to Nirvanna? Why not?

"How far to your brother?" the shotgun passenger asked.

"Approximately three hundred miles, master," the driver responded, "We'll be there by eleven, enough time for you to shower."

"Can we please hurry Bluesummers?" came a raspy voice from the backseat, "I don't want to listen to this shit for four more hours."

"Ah, Ellen," the driver said with a grin, "you do know that you lose the girly voice when you get upset, right? I can gauge your mood solely by how much like a man you sound."

"You... BASTARD!"

"And another thing, never again insult The Doors in my presence, or I'll rip you in half and leave you for the sandworms."

"Whatever. Just please don't get started on how John Lennon was a prophet of the master's birth."

"We've been over that a thousand times if we've discussed it once. John Lennon was a rarity: an enlightened human."

"Oh, _please_."

"How else do you explain Imagine?"

"Other than as The Beatles asking the rest of humanity to commit mass suicide?"

"No, you're missing the point. Lennon and his followers were trying to reform their fellow man. They hadn't created superior beings yet."

"Sure. Let me tell you something: The Beatles _sucked._"

"Shall we stop the car?"

"ENOUGH!" Both involved parties jumped, which in the case of the driver nearly caused him to lose control of the car.

The front passenger stared at them. It was not a nice stare. It generally meant death for its target. This particular instance would not be so brutal, but the gaze was unnerving nonetheless.

"Elendira, quit mocking his music. It's his vehicle. Legato, quit making fun of _her _voice." Regal features curled into a sneer. "Really, you're both acting like five-year-old humans."

"I apologize, Master," Legato replied, making an awkward little half-bow. It wasn't all that impressive looked until one considered that it was made by the driver of a vehicle moving at eighty miles an hour.

"Please accept my own apology," said Elendira, adding her own half-bow. Wouldn't do to get shown up by Legato.

Their master merely nodded, and turned back to his window to stare at the desert. Most saw nothing but wilderness when they looked at it. He, on the other hand, saw potential. He saw the underground oceans that hydro and geoplants could raise working in tandem. He saw the lush meadows that would grow after his sisters enriched and irrigated the soil. He saw exotic tropical rainforests. Crystal clear rivers flowing through valleys. Gently rolling hills with gorgeous views of the surrounding countryside.

All just waiting to happen.

"Legato," he whispered after a short silence, "put on Imagine."

* * *

"The food was great, Mr. Bluesummers," Joseph said, wiping his face with a napkin. Needles stared. 

"I have never known anyone to make such a mess with sauceless meat and a baked potato (may God forgive you for the macaroni incident)," the ever-gracious host replied, "and it's either Allegro or Needles."

"I'm sorry for Joseph's table manners, Allegro," Maria said.

"It's okay," Allegro said, "Truth be told, I'm more irritated about being called 'Mista Bluesummers.' But you know... it really is pathetic that your ten-year old son has better ettiqute than your husband."

Everyone but Joseph laughed.

"That isn't funny..." he wailed.

Emilio, who was finishing his last little bit of steak, grinned.

"Now if everyone is done, Emilio has a little performance for us. There are a couple of chairs in the study that my guests can use. I'll stand; it shouldn't take too long."

"But..." Emilio said, "right now?"

"What's wrong with that?" Needles asked.

"Nothing, I can do it. I'm just... not prepared. But I'll try."

Needles grinned.

"That's the spirit! To the study!"

They walked up the stairs, Allegro leading, hand on the rail.

The second story was not exactly cramped, but the group was squeezed single-file into the hallway that the stairs led to. Either someone had designed this hallway to be the most uncomfortable one in existence (Gelton, who admittedly was fairly massive, had at most three inches clearence on either side) or the rooms the doors on either side of them led to larger rooms.

Needles entered the second door on the left.

"Here it is. Make yourselves comfortable. Gelton, the lights."

Gelton flipped on the lights as he entered. Everyone stared.

"Wow," Maria whispered.

"Isn't it great?" Cameron asked Emilio.

The room was massive. Bookselves filled with volumes of all kinds lined most of the walls, except for the windows and a space between two of them where a large picture was hung. Three recliners sat around a rather nice-looking table (Gelton, ever industrious, was already turning them all to face the same way). Off to one side of the room sat another strange sculpture, this one much larger than the one on the mantel.

An old man in a wheeless, flying chariot, three-pronged-harpoon raised high. He was being dragged along through the air by a team of four not-quite gargoyles. They weren't quite gargoyles in part because they were too supple, too hideously graceful, and in part because the expressive faces of the traditional gargoyles were absent. Not simply less powerful or anything like that, utterly gone, faceless. Several more of them were alongside the chariot, bearing down on...

A man, fallen down, still trying to crawl away on hands and knees. Looking over his shoulder and screaming. The harpoon was pointing at his chest.

"Needles," Joseph said, "your taste in art is scary."

"You mean _Nodens and the Wild Hunt_?" his host asked in a offhand, is-that-so, sort of voice.

"Is that what you call it? Looks like a man chased down by a trident-wielding diabolist to me."

"Interesting," Needles mused, "It's been quite a while since I heard the word 'diabolist' used in a conversation. And yes, I do call it that. It was a gift. Now... Emilio, are you ready?"

Emilio was standing by the table, Leonof in his hands. He looked slightly nervous, but not terribly so.

"What do you want to see?" he asked.

"Well, since you're going to be putting on Macbeth... something from that, I suppose."

"How about the dagger speech?" then, without waiting for an answer, the boy's voice deepened in pitch. It became a sort of English accent, not a fake sounding stage one, but one so disturbingly realistic that for a moment even Needles was taken aback. Leonof knelt on the table as Emilio began.

"Is this a dagger which I see before me,  
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee." Here the puppet reached for something invisible.  
"I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.  
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible  
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but  
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,  
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?  
I see thee yet, in form as palpable  
As this which now I draw.  
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;  
And such an instrument I was to use.  
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses," Leonof clutched its face.  
"Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,  
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,  
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:  
It is the bloody business which informs," the marionette now paced nervously, while Emilio's voice gave off a very convincing aura of menace, not-quite-insanity.  
"Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one halfworld  
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse  
The curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates  
Pale Hecate's offerings, and wither'd murder,  
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,  
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.  
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design  
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,  
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear  
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,  
And take the present horror from the time,  
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives:  
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.  
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.  
Hear it not, Duncan; for it is a knell  
That summons thee to heaven or to hell."

Leonof strode right off the table, and Emilio picked the puppet up. Everyone burst into applause.

"Beautiful kid! Absolutely fantastic!" Raymond gushed, "I thought that thing was gonna walk up and murder me!"

"Quiet Raymond," Kayin said, "You're embarassing him. Emilio, if you ever want to do a musical, let me know. I'd be thrilled to coach anyone you have singing. Especially you yourself; you've got a magnificent voice, you could do great things with it."

"Thank you."

Joseph just smiled. It was one thing to know that your ten-year-old son had gotten together with his buddies to put on an unabridged performance of Macbeth. It was quite another to hear the same son talking about "bloody business."

_Just the character_, he thought, _just the character._

"Hey Needles," Maria was saying, "is this your family?"

Needles turned.

"Oh, the picture between those shelves? Yes."

"Well," Maria said, "tell us about them. How about a little information on our host."

The picture was fairly simple. It was a photograph, enlarged to fill a rather big picture frame. Had they been looking at it casually from across the room, they might have marked it down as a skilled painter's work, but under scrutiny it was obviously too realistic to be the work of human hands. The subject was a family sitting on a grassy hillside under a tree having a picnic; a blonde man and woman, twin boys of about eight or so, another slightly younger boy, a girl that couldn't be much older than two or three, and a cloaked, masked figure sitting hunched over in a wheelchair. That person (gender was impossible to discern) was the only one who didn't look like s/he was having fun, but perhaps that was only because of the covering. The little girl was pulling at a bit of the cloak covering the legs, apparently trying to get him/her to come and play.

"So what do you want to know?" Allegro asked.

"Who's who... and where did you get your hair? Both your parents are blonde."

"My hair?"

"Come on, don't play dumb," she teased, "Your bright, blue hair. You've already said you weren't born blind, so you have to know what I'm talking about."

"Dye job?" he joked, "no, no. Some weird recessive gene that hit my entire family. And that's my father and his sister, not my mother."

"Sorry about th-"

"Don't be. You aren't the first to make that mistake. Let's see... I'm one of the twins, the one on the left I think... the other is my dear brother Legato. The younger boy is Andante (he was a handful), and the little girl is Vivace, the only girl of the whole brood."

"What about the guy in the wheelchair?" Cameron asked.

"I'm getting to him. Be patient. That is my elder brother Staccato. During his life he commited many crimes, however, as far as he was concerned, the worst was being born ugly. He was, in fact, absolutely hideous. One of the few sights that really stands out in my memory. I was one of maybe three people who could meet his eyes without flinching."

"Was..." Maria mused, "you mean he's..."

"Dead?" Needles responded, "Yes, he is that. Out of everyone in that picture, only Legato and I are still alive. And I haven't seen him in years."

"Oh." she said. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."

"You are the most apologetic person I have ever seen, Mrs. Triballus. You didn't kill them. And Staccato is better off. He... wasn't well."

Needles stared in the direction of the painting for a few moments.

"Well," Joseph said, "It's been fun."

For the first time that evening, Allegro looked distrought.

"Leaving? Surely not, it's only a quarter-till-ten! I've got an evening to fill! Another hour? Gelton can whip us up something for desert."

"Sorry. Hate to rush off, but Emilio has a bedtime."

"Oh well," Needles rallied, "come back any time. Or I'll come to your house and demand you feed me. Whichever." He grinned.

"Sure, I'll invite you guys over sometime," Joseph replied. This seemed to relieve Needles somewhat.

"Alright," he said, "Gelton, show them to the door. I think I'm going to stay up here for the moment."

* * *

"Well, that was weird," Joseph said, once they'd gotten home and Emilio was in bed asleep. 

"Joseph!" his wife scolded.

"Well, it's true," the baker replied, "you're just too polite to admit it. I mean, he was a nice guy, but..."

"Are you still freaked out over those statues?" Maria began to giggle.

"No, I..." the giggling was rapidly evolving into full-scale laughter, "You be quiet! Those were freaky!"

"Yeah, I know dear, but..." a couple more giggles, "aren't you overreacting?"

Joseph didn't say anything for a moment. Rationally, he knew he was overreacting. The first statue was weird, but there were far weirder things in the world. The second statue was violent, but there were more violent things in the very play his son was putting on. Needles had questionable tastes in art. So what? But something within him was reacting against those things. And...

"Did you get the feeling that he was sizing us up?" he finally said.

"No..." Maria frowned, "What gave you that idea?"

"I just felt like he was waiting for a reaction _the entire time_. And did you see him grinning while he was naming off his family?"

"It was a smile dear. He can't have fond memories?"

"He was grinning because his entire family is named after a theme!"

"Joseph..."

"Music! Who names all their children after music terminology!"

"Well, maybe he was grinning because he thought it was silly, or maybe he thought we might say something. You're so suspicious." She kissed him.

This argument made Joseph rethink his position.

"You're right. I'm suspicious. He was a nice guy. And you, my lady, are breathtakingly beautiful." He gave her his best charming smile. She pretended offense.

"Are you just trying to flatter your way into my bed?"

"Well... yes,"he said. She kissed him again.

"It's working."

* * *

"Well, that was weird," Gelton said, once the Triballus family was safely out the door. 

"Yeah," Kayin said, "Joseph's always struck me as a little odd. But that kid has talent." He thought about something, then turned to his son. "Repeat any of this to anyone and I'll beat you."

"Yes Sir!" Cameron saluted. Everyone laughed, except for Needles, who was still upstairs.

"Your kid has the right idea," Raymond said. "Suck up and look good, that's the ticket." At 6'4", he wasn't quite as massive as Gelton, but he was big enough to take up a large part of the couch if he tried.

"Please Raymond," Kayin said, "sit up. You've got the whole couch." Then, turning to his son again, "and you, you know your mother's been in a bad mood recently. What if I give you to her?"

Cameron shut up.

"Hey, Gelton said, "what is up with Laura? I was looking forward to seeing her."

"Eyes off my wife."

"You know what I mean Kayin."

"Well," She's been sort of sick recently, and..."

"I'm gonna be a big brother!" Cameron piped up. Kayin stared at his offspring in exasperation.

"Congratulations!" Raymond said.

Gelton laughed. "Ten years apart, man. Most prefer to get their diaper changing over all at once."

"I told you it wasn't for sure," Kayin said to his son, "I wasn't going to start passing out cigars."

"Are you still worried about that?" Gelton asked.

"Yes, I am," Kayin responded, "I am very worried. And Laura is nervous as hell, God bless her. That's why she's not here. Maybe after another couple of months go by and nothing happens..."

"Sorry," Gelton said in his most apologetic tone of voice, "I didn't mean it to come out like that."

"It's okay," Kayin said, "I know you didn't."

Then Raymond brought it up.

"Have you ever thought... maybe it's us? Maybe all the stuff in us is what screws up our attempts to have kids?"

"Plenty of us have had children," Kayin noted, "but you have a valid point. Of those of us who've attempted to procreate with the general population, we do have a higher incidence of problems. As if God is thinking twice about letting us live on."

"You sounded so depressing there," Gelton said.

"It's worse for her. She didn't do anything but marry me."

"If you're going to sit around moping about your difficulties Kayin," the ever-stealthy Needles said, without much compassion, "then I'd rather you stand aside. My greeting commitee must be ready for anything. I don't know what the dog-god will try."

"I can fight," hissed Kayin. "He wants to kill everything human. Laura's human, and Cam's half! For them I'll sing the monster to hell!"

"That's what I wanted to hear," Needles said with a grin, "that's the Kayin Bostalk I know. Everyone to their positions."

"I want to fight too!" yelled Cameron.

"No," said Kayin, gently but firmly, stopping all argument. "Maybe one day, but not now. how do you think your mother and I would feel if something happened? You'll stay in the guest bedroom untill it's over."

Cameron looked disappointed, but nodded, "Yes Sir."

"Alright," Needles said, "get ready."

* * *

PREVIEW 

Needles: The boy has talent. The opening of the Globe is going to go very well, and I'm going to be there to cheer him on. He is my best student, and his achivements deserve no less. But a pall is hanging over this gathering. Every one of them is walking the wire, balanced between life and death, unknowing. The hatred of the dog-god. The horrific nature of the grinning, man-shaped thing in the back row. The appropriateness of the boy's first choice will kill us if nothing else does. By the pricking of my thumbs...

NEXT CHAPTER: Something Wicked This Way Comes


	6. Something Wicked This Way Comes

Chapter 4: Something Wicked This Way Comes

* * *

Disclaimer: Seth ain't mine. Nope. 

STORY SPOILER

He belongs, under another name, to H.P. Lovecraft, and is featured in several stories. If you want to know more, go to Wikipedia, look up "Outer God" (or get there from the Cthulhu Mythos entry) and go to the tenth name down on the table. That's him. If you contact me, I can e-mail with some other stuff (what stories to read in what order, etc..., useful info for those new to Lovecraft).

END SPOILER

Author's Note: Yeah, this is late as all hell. I know. But my schudule's calmed down a bit, so I can work on it more. Reviewer reply is on my xanga.

Oh... And I deviate from manga canon bigtime here. Without saying too much, I'll correct it in the story later on (and ironically, the plot twist I came up with to explain it was a fairly good one). But, if you're gonna chew me out for it anyway, could you do me a favor and not?

A good portion of this chapter revolves around OC's, but there's plenty of canon goodness to be had. I promise before all that is scared that I won't let any of them become Sues/Stus. I know I should show, not tell, and I _think _I do, but with the massive quantity of Suefic in the Trigun fandom, I had to give you guys the reassurance. That said, constructive criticism about them or anything else in this story is more than welcome. Thank you.

This chapter is dedicated to Rabid Badger, who set me on the path to true mangaverse enlightenment. Everyone must now applaud or risk ninja wrath.

* * *

"I have whirled with the earth at the dawning 

When the sky was a vaporous flame

I have seen the dark universe yawning, where the black planets roll without aim

Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name." - H. P. Lovecraft, "Nemesis"

* * *

Needles sat on his porch, in a chair by a little table he'd set up, waiting. 

He'd been waiting for more than an hour, and he was bored. Not bored out of his mind, or bored to tears, or anything of that caliber. Just... bored.

He had been hoping the Triballus family would stay a bit longer. Until eleven would have given him sufficient time to prepare for his other guests, and he wouldn't have had as much time to sit waiting. Nothing could be accomplished one way or the other until they arrived, and there was no time for him to do anything else. He had some books he wanted Gelton to read to him, but Gelton was in the position he'd been assigned, and couldn't leave it. He had thought briefly about getting Kayin to do it, but he wouldn't be familiar with the arrangement of the study; it would take him thirty minutes just to find the thing.

To add insult to injury, Legato was late. He'd been waiting since eleven, and it was already a quarter past midnight. He had Raymond inside, ready to bring out food on command and everything. Was this his brother's way of getting back for the insults, or did the telepath have his own plan in case things went sour? Needles didn't think Legato would insult him by not being ready for something... but this was ridiculous. Or maybe that was the intent, to unnerve him. Plausible.

Probable, actually.

Ah, there he was. As if on cue.

The vehicle pulled up next to Allegro's house, not without ceremony. First the car turned off. Then Legato got out of the driver's seat and went around to open the front passenger side. The door behind that one opened on its own, revealing what most inhabitants of Gunsmoke would have pegged as a woman in her late thirties, carrying a large suitcase. Needles was not impressed, partially because he didn't have vision to distract him, but more so because he recognized the lovely lady.

"Ah, Elendira," he remarked, "it's been a while. Got anyone to chop it off yet?" Elendira's face twitched, but s/he remained relatively calm. At least on the surface. Needles, on the other hand, could see that he'd scored a point or two (he _almost_ felt guilt for the low blow). Legato smirked at this as he opened the door.

"Allow me," Legato said, uttermost reverence in his voice, "to introduce the rightful Lord of this planet, and soon-to-be destroyer of mankind."

Said destroyer stepped out of the car. Kayin, who'd been lying down on a porch swing, sat up and stared. Whatever he'd been expecting, Knives wasn't it. The plant _was_ fairly regal-looking, could even be called handsome, but Lord of this World?

"Greetings, Allegro Bluesummers. Your brother has told me a great deal about you, and as such I've found myself anxious to meet you. My name is-"

"Millions Knives Seibrem. I know that much." Needles stood, and Knives saw that in his left hand he held a blind man's white cane, and in the right a large handgun, similar in style to the Broomhandle Mauser. "I'd like to introduce my own little group.

"This scrawny fellow on the swing is Kayin. He's harmless unless you piss him off. Don't do that. My housekeeper, Gelton, has pressing matters to attend to, but he'll have Raymond out with snacks and intoxicating beverages in a moment. The almost-humans in attendance (here he motioned to a couple walking down the street toward the house), are Shinita and Miranda Yanez, better known as the Nebraska Pair during their string of very violent robberies committed a decade and a half ago. I arranged for them to live without fear of the law in this little town, provided that they rehabilitated and signed a waver allowing my personal physicians to perform a series of very interesting, yet highly illegal, medical treatments on them."

"Charmed," Knives deadpanned.

"Now," Needles continued, "I will speak to my brother. Then we will discuss your business here."

"Your impudence rapidly ceases to amuse me brother," Legato said softly. "My master has come to speak to you."

"And I said I would speak to him. After we talk."

Look at the Messers. Bluesummers from the point of view of an outsider. Knives perhaps, or Elendira, or Kayin, or Gelton. Take your pick. They stand across from each other staring, though Needles can't see anymore, he knows exactly what he's looking at.

The two of them have a lot in common. The Brothers Bluesummers are both handsome men who look a hale and hearty forty-five and have for many years now. Their hair began to gray long ago, but hasn't progressed any in quite some time. Graying blue hair has a strange visual effect to say the least; if the average middle-aged head is "salt-and-pepper," than they are "choppy-ocean." They both consider good food one of life's greatest pleasures. Both of them are misanthropes with a penchant for sarcasm, and a deep-seated love of verbally tearing others down (something Needles is trying to work on, Christ wouldn't even have taken pleasure from rebuking a Pharisee). They also have a deep-seated love of _physically _tearing others down, but talking about that around either of them is likely to produce a demonstration.

Standing next to his master, Legato is an imposing figure. The ever-present white coat was given to him long ago, and he hasn't been able to part with it. He is well groomed, though his hair almost hangs into his eyes. He seems graceful, not encumbered at all by his artificial left arm, or the not-quite human skull sitting on it. It might take a person weeks of watching him walk to realize that he favors the left leg when walking, and most would be shocked to see that the weak right is supported by a brace. Both of the twins are handsome, but in Legato's case this is tempered by a coldness that starts on his face and radiates across every inch of his body, out into his surroundings. He is perfectly stoic; the slight smile on his face calculated entirely, no emotion behind it that can be seen. No conscience either, Legato is pure ego, without the primitive urges of id or moral concerns of superego.

Allegro isn't quite as scary, but he could be if he were to try. His outfit is a little more sensible, a long-sleeved shirt and nondescript jeans. His hair reaches to his shoulders, and is quite well done; a few of the more "manly" men call him pretty boy, but never to his face (there is something about him that unnerves them). A battered fedora, tilted forward almost to the top of his glasses, completes the picture. Emotionally, if Legato is cold, then Needles is burning hot. Not having eyes, however, restricts his emotional reaction somewhat, so he seems much more subdued than he actually is. When he is feeling happy or smug, the impression is that he has just been told a tremendously funny joke (probably at your expense), when he is mad, he looks sulky. A dangerous false impression. Angry Needles does not sulk.

The face-off continued for only about ten seconds. Legato spoke first.

"Say what you will Allegro. I'd hoped you'd be more receptive though."

"Alright," Needles began. It had been easier than he'd expected. Something was up.

"Let's start with some rules. First," he continued, "if this is about us joining you, I'll save you some time. No. Second, we will all put away our weapons. Diplomacy at gunpoint is barbaric. Third, no killing innocent bystanders while you're here. If you've already broken that one, don't do it again. Finally, you will eat some cheesecake. It's not poisoned. I'll eat the piece of your choice first if you wish."

There was a long pause.

"So," Elendira finally said, "you cut off Master Knives to force us to eat your _cheesecake_?"

"No. If you're going to be that way about it, I don't want you to have any." Without missing a beat: "Legato, what is this about? Honestly, did you really think I'd jump on the bandwagon as soon as I was faced with your master's divine presence?"

"Your sarcasm is unnecessary, and in fact weakens your position. We came here to negotiate; I assure you that I long ago gave up the hope that you'd ever see our point of view."

"Which is?"

"That humanity is far beyond hope. They squander their resources with no thought for the future. They take everything they can for themselves without compassion, crushing others for their own benefit while they speak of love and mercy. They destroy everything they touch. They are a plague that must be destroyed."

Needles nodded sympathetically. Then he turned toward Knives.

"That was nice. Does he get a biscuit?"

Elendira snickered. Legato scowled. When Knives gave no sign of responding, Needles continued.

"I apologize for my temper. Please sit, eat. I'd love to hear what you have to say. Particularly if what you have to say is, 'We've decided that genocide is a bad way to go about this.' I'm not holding out much hope, but…" He shrugged, "Where there's life…"

He sat his gun down on the table.

"Now you," he said.

"A pointless gesture," Knives replied.

"A pointless talk," Kayin mocked from his swing, perfectly imitating Knives' tone, "If it wasn't for him, your brains would have been running out of your nose before you were out of the car. I'm not nearly as diplomatic as our esteemed leader."

Raymond, who had walked out with a tray of margaritas around "brains," quietly sat the tray down and waited for the earth-shattering kaboom.

Instead, Knives put his gun down on top of the car, and replied softly.

"Kayin Bostalk. Married a human, now has a child with it. I suppose that accounts for at least some of your hostility."

Kayin took out a harmonica.

Elendira pointed the suitcase at him. Legato's eyes widened, and Kayin's arms froze in a painful looking position above his head. Raymond, thinking quickly, lunged at the poor man's feet, knocking him to he ground. Elendira, who had been deprived of an excellent opportunity to say, "stop or I'll shoot!" looked put out.

It was a rare moment when one saw Millions Knives absolutely, utterly confused. This was one of those rare moments.

"Didn't I say we'd all disarm ourselves as best we were able?" Needles was saying to Kayin, who was on the ground, Raymond siting on his chest. "That includes your harmonica."

"I can still sing," Kayin wheezed.

"I don't doubt it," Allegro replied, "but you can't kill him now. If he goes after Laura and Cam, I'll hold him down while you crucify him, but he hasn't done anything so stupid yet." He looked at Knives, then added, "I hope. You wouldn't be that dumb, would you, to kill a man's wife on the way to talk to him, would you Knives?"

"Of course not. His weapon of choice is a harmonica?"

"Well, like he just said, he can sing too, and the things he can do with a pipe organ are nightmare fuel, and there are around five, maybe six dozen other assorted instruments that he can kill off a symphony hall's seating capacity with in under thirty seconds, but the harmonica has the virtue of being both portable and concealable. Also, it's a rather humiliating way to die, so it's worth it for that alone as far as he's concerned. Cheesecake? Ham or turkey cream cheese rolls? Homemade potato chips? Wine or margarita? Something with more alcohol?"

"I'll have some cheesecake," Legato volunteered.

"I've already cut you out a piece," Needles said, pointing to a plate containing nearly a quarter of said cheesecake a fork neatly off to one side.

"Thank you."

* * *

He walked, shirtless, in the desert, under the stars, savoring the feel of the bitter cold night air on a good facsimile of human nerves. It was at times like this that he was closest to contentment. In the dark, in the quiet, not speaking or thinking or plotting anything that needed plotting. To just exist was a rare pleasure, one he savored whenever given the opportunity. 

He loved this planet. He wasn't sure why. Its inhabitants considered it an unforgiving hellhole. But then again, humans weren't designed to live on desert planets in binary star systems. It wasn't that much hotter here than on the average Earth, but it was desertified thoroughly. And, to be fair, it could get pretty hot during summertime (so their poor human complaints weren't entirely unjustified). He smiled.

He crossed the desert slowly, without any of the fear humans had of it. To them it was a grave threat, a monster that could overwhelm and kill them at any moment. To him it was a kindred spirit; they were, after all, in the same line of work.

And then something that wasn't a voice. Nothing so quaint. But if it had been a voice, it would have said: _SHOWSHOWSEETHESHOWPUPPETSHOWTWOWEEKSCHILDRENSUFFERHURTWORSHIP_

He turned to the west, toward the small town of Little Jericho. He liked the way that name sounded. He'd been there before. He could be there again in less than two weeks. This particular task was easily done.

But he took his time walking, because it was such a perfect night.

* * *

"Really, Kayin," Elendira said, as she sadistically patted him on the shoulder Legato had nearly dislocated keeping him off Knives, "what was the point? What did you think would happen?" 

"Get off it Ellen," Kayin retorted, "you and Legato won't be around to save his ass forever." Then he turned to Knives. "You do know that you would have been slaughtered like the Passover lamb had your psychic friend not stepped in, right?"

Legato chuckled. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"You'll never grow up," he said, still grinning, "no matter how old you get. Hypothetical situations don't matter. I was here, and Master Knives will expect you next time. A wasted opportunity if his death was what you wanted to accomplish."

"Shut up and eat your cheesecake."

Knives stared at them for a moment before looking at Needles.

"Are you all like that?"

"What, you mean petty, vicious, and intensely competitive about stupid little things?"

"You are," the plant continued, "making it rather difficult for me to rationalize sparing you."

"Sparing _us_?" Needles actually began to laugh here, "You flatter yourself. You are not as great as you think you are, little god."

"Interesting," Knives pretended to be deep in thought for a moment. "So you acknowledge me as a deity?"

"Do you think you are a deity?" Needles asked.

"No," Knives replied, "I do not. Superior to the human garbage that is trying to establish itself here, yes. Deity, no. But I'm curious as to why you refer to me as a god, unless you're mocking me. I wouldn't put that beneath you."

"So suspicious," said Kayin, who had recovered enough to be cocky, "careful not to hurt his little feeeeliiiings."

"I'm not mocking you," Needles said. "But do you know that 'god' spelled backwards is 'dog'?"

"A trick of the English language," Knives dismissed.

"True. But one worth pointing out. There are plenty of gods, enough to fill a thousand worlds without using a single mortal organism. Only a few of them are worth worshipping. Catch my drift?"

"So I'm a god, but not worth the trouble of worshipping?"

"That is correct, but not just that. Your attempts to slaughter humanity, for example. Beings greater than you have been destroyed for hubris. Your actions have already begun to draw... unfortunate attention."

"Ooo ean eh est?" Legato tried to reply through a mouthful of cheesecake. Then he remembered himself.

_You mean the Beast?_ he projected.

"Kayin," Elendira said, sighing, "have I told you how much I've missed you? I'm sorry for pointing a gun at you." Kayin laughed.

"Sorry Ellen, I'm a married man now. Got a kid and everything. Besides, he isn't eating all the time is he?"

He looked at Legato, who was cutting out another quarter of the cheesecake.

"Okay, stupid question."

_The Beast is a half-dead weakling,_ Legato continued, _nothing more than a relic of an era long gone when _we_ were young. It's interesting to look at if you enjoy history, but you can't convince me that that the Beast is a threat to anything anymore._

The Beast, who was now standing on the roof of Legato's vehicle, looked offended.

"You know," it said, raspy voice filled with enough sweetness to kill many diabetics with a word, "we might just blow up this car, you mouthy bastard. I'm not too dead to do that."

Legato and Knives turned around slowly.

The Beast looked like a poorly groomed child. Messy, straw-colored hair hung over its forehead, nearly into its eyes. It looked male, but the voice defied gender, it could have been either male or female run through a distorter to hide its identity. The eyes were the defining thing though. Bright blue-violet and slited vertically, like a cat's. It held a snubnose revolver in each hand, twirling them lazily.

"Ah," Legato said, swallowing the bit of cheesecake in his mouth, "Zazie. How I've missed your inability to decide how many of you there are. Why are you here?"

"I heard you were coming to talk, and I thought it would be something to see. Only one of me, I think."

Legato stared at his brother for a moment.

"He said he wouldn't interfere," Needles responded to the unasked question, "What do you want to negotiate?"

"I want your promise that _you_ won't interfere. We are considering allowing you to keep a small population of your favorites alive in a preserve, but you will not even be given that if you go against us."

Needles looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Really? Is that _all_ you want? You look like you came to beg for money. Come on, you can be honest..."

"Your contribution would be noted when the time came for the creation of Eden," Knives said, "but we didn't come to beg."

"Yes you did," Allegro replied. "My third eye isn't the greatest, but I'm not stupid. There's only so much you can rip from the cold, dead hands of the innocent before people start getting suspicious. And if the nasty humans come knocking before you're ready, than you might have a problem. So you need money to make legitimate purchases. Am I right?"

Knives looked affronted. Needles grinned.

"Don't take it personally. After all, while you and my dear brother have spent the years since the Fall smashing the pesky insects, I've been busy making myself into the most powerful businessman on the planet. It's only natural that I'd have more funds. Alas, I cannot, in good conscience, give you money for weapons of mass destruction."

"Then will you at least agree not to interfere?" the plant asked.

"No."

"Why do you care what happens to them?" questioned Knives.

"Because I must earn my salvation. God's forgiveness is not as free for sins of our caliber, Knives. I don't love them... but I can't let you kill them all."

Knives' face grew cold. "If that is your decision..."

"But," Allegro continued, "I can help you save your sisters."

"I'm listening."

He reached into his pocket. Elendira trained her deadly luggage on him.

"You should relax," the Beast said, "it's not a gun." Elendira kept him in her sights nonetheless.

It was not a gun. It was a checkbook. He beckoned to Knives.

"I can supply you with very convincing identification as well," he said. "You'll inevitably need it; I don't think they allow unknown drifters to run for office. I can have you on the ballots for December City's election next year, and while I normally don't approve of such doings, I think I can pretty much assure an outcome in your favor. You just tell me how much money you'll need."

"Are you talking about getting me elected mayor of December?" Knives asked. His face didn't change, but disbelief passed over him like a cloud. Needles felt it. Maybe there was hope. Maybe the little brat just hadn't had any hope for a peaceful solution, and he'd take one that was offered. But then the plant continued.

"No, that won't work. I want to destroy the vermin, not pander to them. If you believe that I even want to rule such creatures, you are sorely mistaken."

Needles gnashed his teeth in rage. He was close to losing his temper.

"Listen here, you little _brat_! I'm offering you the best deal of your life! All you have to do is take power, and within a few months, we can free some of the plants for "experimental" purposes. A few more years and our scientists can make miraculous "discoveries" about the capabilities of plants. All your sisters can be free in a decade, and _no one else has to die._ Do you understand what I'm saying?" Knives looked at Allegro as if he'd gone mad. Legato's normally impassive face twisted with rage. It really was a wonder Elendira hadn't started shooting yet.

"You are every bit as insolent as your brother claimed. However, out of the goodness of my heart and to demonstrate that I am superior to humans, who would have shot you dead by now, I will give you a chance to apologize. I'm waiting."

The plant's hands seemed to shift, and Knives' fingernails became noticeably sharper.

"Alright, that's fair," Needles said. "I'll apologize for two things. Please refrain from ripping me in half until you hear both.

"One, I thought you might be less than receptive of a compromise, so I prepared for a fight. As a result," he tapped his hat, "I've been rather less than open with you. By all the gods of all the worlds, this thing has come in handy. Much easier to wear a hat than to have to bother with manual telepathic jamming. Gelton isn't here because he's set up somewhere, looking at this meeting through the scope of a sniper rifle. Just making sure things don't get out of hand. He's got a hat too, so don't bother with a mental search, Legato.

"Two, I would very much regret having caused you to get exactly what you want. Should I be slain here, and Gelton somehow fail to kill you, my final orders will be carried out immediately, and I don't think the three of you can move fast enough to stop them."

"And they are?" Knives asked, looking around for a sign of the gunman.

"The complete and utter destruction of this planet's human population. I told you, _exactly what you want_. It's the method that you'll dislike. If I die, my minions will begin the organized slaughter of every plant angel on Gunsmoke. Can you imagine it? If Stantal hasn't lived up to its unofficial nickname yet, it will..."

"You can't do that..." Knives hissed, struggling to control his hatred.

"Yes he can," Kayin cut in, grinning from ear to ear, "there are 2,758 of us here, spread out fairly evenly across the human settlements. That's enough to storm the plants in each of the seven major cites and put you on the endangered species list inside of twelve hours. As for our electricity... we were just fine before you got here with your siblings, and we'll be fine after they're gone."

"And what if I leave, only to begin killing you off one by one?" the plant asked.

"My lieutenants and I have already had that discussion," Needles replied. "If we have evidence that something of that nature is occurring, every one of us in that settlement will rise up and hunt you down. In addition to that, the strings I can pull will make you the most wanted man alive if you somehow manage to survive _that_. Everyone on this world who can fire a gun will hunt you for what I'll offer. Try it and see."

Knives' face contorted. He looked like he was trying very hard not to have a stroke.

"You know," Shinita opined, "I think he's got ya by the balls. I mean, I'm fairly new to all this, but he's got you outnumbered by a fair bit."

The plant's hands clenched. Twice, he opened his mouth to speak, but there were no coherent words.

"Regardless of the precautions I took, my previous offer was legitimate," said Needles. "Think about it."

Knives turned away. Elendira and Legato both flinched when they saw the look on his face.

"This isn't over by a long shot," he said, almost calmly. "You'll die with the rest of them."

"It certainly isn't over," Needles replied, "but I don't think I'll lose much sleep over it. You're only a little god, despite your opinions to the contrary. Oh, by the way... Zazie?"

"Yes?"

A shot rang out. Everyone jerked except for Needles, who was holding his gun as if it had never left his hand. Knives whirled, ready to retaliate if he was being attacked, but the gunfire did not sound again. Everyone who had been facing the Beast when the shot was staring at him. The creature was missing his right leg.

"You..." it snarled, "that _hurt_. Do you know how hard it is to regenerate a limb?"

"Let that be a lesson," Needles said, "about the dangers of playing double agent. My brother is right, you really aren't worth getting upset over, but pick a side already. Knives, if you change your mind before the slaughter starts, my offer still stands." Then he turned and walked into the house.

* * *

Matthew Luraude was usually a happy person. He had good parents, good friends, and as comfortable a living situation as was possible for Gunsmoke's middle class. In addition to this, he was a bit of an optimist, a searcher for silver linings. 

So, as he spent his afternoon cleaning his terminally messy room, he reflected that this was for the good of his allowance. Also, if he got it clean enough, he might be allowed to invite Emilio over. They could work on the puppet show. Matthew wasn't a particular fan of Shakespeare, but witches plotting around a brewing caldron, nobles killing each other for the throne, ghosts, a mysterious prophecy... it all appealed to his sense of danger and conspiracy.

If he had been told that three nights ago, while he slept, a meeting had taken place concerning the fate of the entire human race, his reaction would have been one of disappointment (that _he_ wasn't invited) instead of fear. He was still at the stage of life where curiosity is overwhelming, but common sense and self-preservation are not quite fully formed. He'd never really get past it. It would eventually kill him, but that was far in the future. Right now, he was just a kid, one to whom the harsh world had been kind.

He froze.

In the next room, Olivia was whining about how it was his turn to do the dishes. And how he hadn't swept the kitchen floor last night, even though it had been his turn to do that then. So much for his plans. He shrugged.

There was always tomorrow.

* * *

Isabel ate with her father in silence. It was a comfortable silence though; both Pfeiffer and his daughter were the kind of dedicated eaters that devoted their entire energy to enjoying a meal. Isabel's mother, a natural chatterer, would have tried to carry on conversations at the table, but she had died in childbirth, due to complications that would have been easily preventable before the Great Fall. Pfeiffer realized that he probably spoiled his daughter because of this, but he had a hard time caring too much about it. 

For her part, Isabel was not the most obnoxious or spoiled child in the world by a long shot. Yes, she could be bratty, she sulked when she didn't get her way, and she could throw a temper tantrum with the best of them, but she certainly wasn't all _that_ bad. And she had plenty of good points: she was intelligent, she was very generous to those she considered friends, and however much cajoling he had to do, she always eventually did what her father said. Pfeiffer thought she had plenty of potential, and not just in the way that all parents thought that about their children. He could see her tenacity being put to good use as a member of the Stantal Investigation Bureau.

He approved of her friendship with Emilio and Matthew. They were nice kids. In the back of his mind, he hoped she could at least find a good husband if she couldn't get out and make her own destiny. And while eleven was far too young to worry about things like that, it was comforting that her taste in men was good.

* * *

Melissa was a nearly perfect introvert. Indeed, had it not been for her friendship with Isabel, she probably would not have been noticeable enough to warrant mention in this story. In all probability, she wouldn't have lived past the age of twelve. But that one friendship was enough. 

She was a nice person. She didn't have a lot of friends, just Isabel (and the other girl's close friends, who were her friends by default), but most people liked her well enough. She was quiet, polite, not much trouble. Adults praised her maturity. She was perfectly happy with this arrangement.

Still, it was nice to be lauded for her work, as opposed to her keeping to herself all the time. So, when Emilio had approached her, saying that Isabel had told him that her best friend could paint great landscapes, Melissa had only needed to ask what he wanted before saying yes to the implied request.

So here she was, painting a "blasted heath" to order a week from showtime. It was coming along nicely. Very blasted. Her mother thought that painting was a good hobby to encourage, so Melissa had access to as many materials as the family's spare change and her own productivity allowed (usually only a painting a month, although she could certainly work faster). She had done three other backgrounds for the play this month. This was the last, and it was nearly finished.

It was good. Not perfect by any means, she was only ten, but the skill level reflected here was nothing to be ashamed of. Only one last touch, and she would be happy with it. She wanted a person in the background. Not a big person, because that would just look stupid and mess up what Emilio had wanted. Just a little man in the shadows, overlooking the proceedings. She'd decided that he was a warlock, watching the coven from afar.

She painted him in less than thirty seconds. He was only an inch high, and he looked sort of like an evil monk.

Melissa thought he was great.

* * *

Shinita Yanez was his real name. Nebraska had been a pseudonym. 

He'd never enjoyed killing people, but he'd never been particularly squeamish about it either. So he was probably damned. Miranda may have had regrets, but she didn't voice them, and he didn't bring it up. That part of their lives was past them, and there was no point dwelling on them.

If he had subconsciously entertained hopes of earning redemption by killing the Antichrist, they were gone now. The dog-god had been a joke, thwarted by a hostage situation. Not forever, hate like that couldn't be indefinitely contained by logic, but when the time to do battle finally came, it wouldn't be the Nebraska Pair that ended Knives' genocidal ambition. Needles, mayhap, or Gelton would strike the monster down. So much for the Rider on the White Horse. What a disappointment.

Heh, maybe he _did _enjoy violence.

Joseph Triballus would have been surprised to know that his friend's temper had improved quite a bit over the years. He had once broken a man's wrist for daring to spill a drink on him. The poor man screamed, annoying Shinita further. The outlaw had finally rectified the situation by kneeing the man in the balls and tossing him out of the bar.

Yelling at people who made him mad? He'd gone soft since the days of his youth. Fifteen years ago, he wasn't mean, he was the living essence of meanness. But he hadn't hurt anyone in a long time. He wouldn't let himself. He even delegated the task of their children's occasional spankings to Miranda. She'd always been the voice of reason.

He occasionally wondered if one day he'd feel guilty. It would be reassuring. After all, he'd been born human. He theoretically had a soul. He'd personally killed eleven innocents, not as many as some, but surely he should feel _something_.

Maybe watching a group of children put on Macbeth would jolt some sort of life back into his soul. It probably couldn't hurt.

* * *

If someone had asked Emilio who his best friends were, his first answer probably would have been Matthew. Isabel and Galpez would have gotten honorable mentions. The man they were hanging out with now might or might not have been added as an afterthought. 

He wouldn't have minded this at all. It was his nature to hang out in the background. He didn't want recognition. But he was good with kids, and they liked him, and they were far better off with him around than with most of the other adults on the planet.

Most of the time, he allowed himself to think that it was over. Surely it was, right? His brother hadn't shown up to ruin his life in years. There was good reason to think that the would-be genocide was dead. Gone. Deceased. An ex-plant (he couldn't remember exactly how he and Knives had gotten access the the ship's cache of old Earth television, but the look on Rem's face when she'd found her four-month old adopted sons watching "Monty Python" was priceless).

Maybe he could settle down for good at last. Or at least, until his friends started getting old without him (now _there_ was a cheery thought). But there was no point in brooding on _that_.

"Why aren't you in the puppet show?" Galpez asked.

"Because I'm not as good as you guys are," he replied.

"But you could do _something..._"

"Oh, let him be useless if he wants to be," Matthew said. Everyone laughed except for the joke's target.

"You guys are mean. I've gotta work to live here you know..."

"Awww, he was just kidding," Emilio said.

"Yeah, I know he was. I hope. Otherwise, I might have to avenge my... SAMURAI HONOR!" He charged, flailing his arms wildly.

Isabel stood off to the side while the boys took him to the ground.

"My dad says it's not ladylike for a girl to wrestle," she explained, "come on Emilio, put him in a headlock, you can do better than that..."

"Thought... it wasn't... ladylike..." the poor man gasped.

"My dad says girls get other people to do the wrestling for them. But they can shoot people themselves."

"Your dad doesn't sound like a nice man..."

* * *

Showtime at last. 

Even though he knew he was talented, Emilio was nervous. But there was no stopping now.

A little more than thirty people had shown up for the show. Mostly friends and family of those involved in it. All the adults had bought $$5 tickets, which awed Emilio. They were paying to see the show. The show that he was putting on. It hadn't occured to him that money could be made doing this until Kayin brought up ticket sales.

The Globe was a shed-like building, with a platform that allowed several people to stand above the stage with marionettes at once. There was plenty of storage room for the various puppets. Several fans and good ventilation kept the inside from being unbearably hot. Extra marionettes and scenery that wasn't part of the painted background (such as a little bottomless caudron that would be used with hand puppets for the "three spirits" scene) were stacked in one corner. The Triballus cat slept on top of the pile, in the incredibly inconvenient way that cats do. A cooler with canned drinks was in the other. All the puppets for the opening scene were in place. All the people to work the puppets were in place. All was good.

The play itself went without incident. Or at least, without any incident that the players had directly caused. A two year old brought to the puppet show by one of Joseph's friends (against the baker's advice) began crying in the middle of the witch-filled prologue, and the child had to be calmed. Showing remarkable determination, or perhaps just thinking that anything with puppets _had _to be child friendly, the child's mother hadn't taken the child away. The kid had started wailing again as soon as the doomed antihero had met the weird sisters. That had been enough to disuade her from forcing the terrified child to watch more. Emilio, voicing two of the three witches (Isabel had wanted to say "Fillet of a fenny snake") had bravely soldiered on through it, getting Isabel to continue as well.

It had not occured to him to make the voices less scary.

After about two hours of witches, ghosts, treason, bloodshed, and deceptively worded prophecy, the players behind the puppets emerged to applause. Many in the audience had only been present because they knew one of the kids putting it on. They'd been shocked when it had turned out to be really, really good.

Emilio managed to dodge most of his now enthusiastic fans politely as he headed back to his parents to celebrate. One of them however, stepped in front of him and grinned. Emilio said the first thing that came to mind.

"Where's your shirt?"

This question was a good one. The man was wearing a weird red robe thing from the waist down, but no shirt. He was muscled, so Emilio could maybe see him wanting to show off, but where was the sunburn? White hair fell to the middle of his back and around his eyes, which sparkled strangely (later on, the boy would not be able to recall what color they'd been, only that it had been a weird one). He was smiling.

"I must have forgotten it, young one," the man replied. "That was an admirable performance."

"Thank you," Emilio said, smiling politely as he tried to go around the couple. The man pushed him back and continued.

"I despise false modesty. Your show was magnificent, especially coming from one so young. A superior work of fine art."

"Who are you?" the boy asked. Alarm bells were ringing, but he was not yet scared.

"Well... Do you believe in fairy godparents?"

"No," Emilio replied, backing away a little.

"Then I am as close to being a not-fairy-godfather as you could possibly be."

What did _that _mean?

"What's your name?" Emilio asked.

"Which one would you like?"

"You've got more than one?" the boy wondered aloud.

"Many. I feel that one should have at least as many names as changes of clothing, and preferably more." The smile became a grin, probably to show that this was a joke, but it made him look sharklike. "Call me Seth."

"Seth. I'll remember that. My dad is calling me."

"Of course. But first I have a gift for you." He reached behind Emilio's ear. The boy, who had seen this trick before, and was expecting a quarter, was surprised to see a small rectangular package, wrapped in bright paper.

"Take good care of it, young Emilio. Your talent will carry you far. Eventually you will be the greatest showman on this planet." Here he leaned close to Emilio, who was finally just a little bit scared. "I have great faith in you."

And with that, Seth turned and walked away.

Emilio walked over to his father.

"Sorry, I was ambushed by a weirdo."

"Which one?" Joseph asked.

_What do you mean, 'Which one?' _he thought,_ I only talked to one guy! _

What he said was, perhaps fortunately; "Huh?"

"You were talking to a few people," Joseph replied, "I thought you knew them..."

"Well, I..." He paused, trying to figure it out.

"Come on, let's go get your stuff. I doubt you'll want to leave Leonof here.

Emilio just nodded.

* * *

Later that night, Emilio sat on his bed and stared at Seth's unopened present. 

_He's a weirdo. It could be a bomb or something._

Never the soul of caution, he tore it open.

It wasn't a bomb. It was a strange knife, made from the tooth of some massive predator. It was about ten inches in length when the hilt was included. Emilio stared.

_No way Dad will let me keep this._

He put it back in the box and hid it under his mattress anyway.

* * *

PREVIEW: 

Joseph: And so life goes on. More shows are performed, babies are born to scraggly musicians, young love begins to take shape, and everyone is happy. But we're not really safe. The sword of Damocles is hanging over us, and we don't even look up. We think we live in peace and safety, but this is only the...

NEXT CHAPTER: Calm Before the Storm


	7. Calm Before The Storm

Chapter 5: Calm Before The Storm

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own Kesskass or Gazelle. Though Gazelle has no canon backstory as far as I can tell. He's cool anyway. 

Things I DO Own: I own Amelia and Sisera, and am willing to sell the rights to them for a sub sandwich (the sandwich must, however, be fresh)

Author's Note: Sorry about the wait. Due to an unfortunate alignment of the planets (and my statistics final, ACT, and test for second-degree black belt all coming due within the same two-week timeframe), I had to put this fic on temporary hiatus so I could study. I should have more time now.

This chapter is a little slow, but I hope you enjoy it regardless. The next two chapters are... more action-oriented. Yeah. So they shouldn't take as long. And they'll close out Part One! Aren't you excited? Don't overwealm me now. Reviewer replies will be on my xanga soon.

* * *

"A new generation of children will bring order to this age." 

"You're a good friend, but unfortunately, our interest is not mutual, we both have become burdened with so much, and we don't have time for fun anymore."

"There's always time for fun, it's Friday night."

"Let's dance." - Kun Lan and Harman Smith, _Killer 7

* * *

_

_77 A.F._

Mysterious origin aside, the knife was very useful. Despite its strange appearance, it was perfectly balanced, perfect for delicate work. It handled like a particularly sharp dream. Emilio didn't know how Needles had found out about it, but he had shown up at the Triballus residence a week after the play with a book on wood-carving and a block of the stuff that he claimed was "extra." Emilio, who knew nothing of wood's curent price on Gunsmoke, accepted it without thought.

Three blocks into his self-education, he managed to turn out a crude aproximation of the human form. He was shocked when his father seemed more concerned about the price of the material than with his craftsmanship. Fortunately, in his horror at his son's carving up a valuable resource, Joseph entirely forgot to think about what the carving had been done with.

Thereafter, Emilio was more modest about his accomplishments, at least until Needles arranged for the boy's work to be sold. Within several months of his first attempts, he had sold several for $$199.99 a piece! For that price, Joseph couldn't complain (although he muttered about Allegro being creepy when he found out where the material had come from). At first they were only sculptures, but the desire to make his own puppets overwhelmed him. He had to try it. His progress here was slow at first, but seemed to snowball as he went along. At first the moving parts were clumsy, but he kept at it, and soon he sold one of them to a traveler for more than one of his sculptures.

His plays were going well too. There was a new one every other month. If one of his friends temporarily lost interest in the shows, he simply recruited new members for the act. By the fourth production, there were more than a dozen possible players.

Joseph was both amazed and slightly scared at these developements.

* * *

It was Gelton who finally came up with the name. He was in the bakery buying bread for sub sandwiches, because Needles was feeling like one or two or five, when Emilio walked in to speak to his father. 

"Hey kid," he called, "walk back there and tell your dad to move his ass."

"Nah, I don't wanna get killed."

"Whatever..." Gelton said, sighing dramaticly and staring at a crumpled up piece of paper money, "I guess I'll just have to give a hundred double-bucks to someone who's brave enough..."

Emilio's eyes widened. He'd been making some money, but his dad had been making him save most of it (and the amazingly awesome Needles wasn't going to step in on his behalf here; when Emilio had complained, Needles had taken Joseph aside and advised him on how to invest the money correctly). Spending money would officialy rock.

"You're lying."

"Nope."

"You weren't gonna give me money."

"I _was_, but I'm not _now._"

"You were not."

Joseph walked up to the counter holding Gelton's bread.

"So, what's going on guys?" he asked.

"Gelton said he would have given me a hundred double-dollars to tell you to hurry. But he's a," he slipped into his British accent here, "_filthy liar."_

"That isn't a nice thing to say, Emilio," the baker replied.

Gelton laughed.

"He doesn't offend me much." He looked vaguely thoughtful as he counted out the bills to to give to Joseph. "Actors are like that. It's only right that Emilio the actor-extrordinaire is quirky."

"I'm not quirky!"

"Yeah, you're pretty quirky."

"Am not! I'm just good at doing plays!"

Gelton grinned.

"So, you admit you're a twelve year-old player? Pretty quirky. And easy to annoy. You should work on that, player."

"Dad..." Emilio whined.

"Gelton, quit calling my son a player," Joseph said, rather half-heartedly.

"I'll quit calling him a player when he quits playing. But why would he want me to? I think 'Emilo the Player' sounds kinda catchy myself. Later."

He turned and walked out, his majestic exit spoiled only by his hair being blown into his face as he walked under one of the bakery's fairly powerful ceiling fans.

"Weird guy," Joseph commented. "So, what did you want to see me about?"

"Mom told me to tell you she'd left this grocery list on your clothes and you'd still left it at home. She says she's gonna smack you if you come home without this stuff."

Joseph took the list and frowned.

"But I just got milk!"

"That wastwo weeks agoDad," Emilio said patiently.

"Are you sure? We don't use that much milk..."

"You eat two bowls of cereal a day. And we had a quiche."

"And cheese?"

"We haven't had any for a week and a half. We used the last on that quiche."

"I know we have eggs!" Joseph snarled at the list. Then it hit him.

"Not the quiche again!"

Emilio nodded.

"That's _it, _Player! We're going shopping. And there will never be another quiche under my roof!

Ironically, Joseph was right about that.

* * *

Kayin was sitting on his porch, playing harmonica and watching the sunset when Emilio arrived. Sean Bostalk, now approaching two years of age, sat on his dad's lap listening to the pretty music. Against all odds, the child was happy and healthy, but it had been a near thing. Kayin and his wife both watched the boy as if they thought he might crumble to dust at any second. 

"Lemme guess," Kayin said, "You want Cam, right? He's inside. A bit late though..."

"Well..." Emilio replied, "actually I was wondering if you could read this." The boy held out a collection of papers. Kayin took them, interested. After a moment of study, he responded.

"You want to put on the _Aria of Don Giovanni_?" he asked. "Who introduced you to this one? Needles, I suspect?"

"Yeah, he said it would be really cool to do, but I'd have to go to you for the music, cause he and Gelton can't read it. He told me what it was about."

"I imagine... But who do you think will come to watch a puppet show in Italian?"

"I dunno. I just want to try. Can you teach me to sing it?"

Kayin stared. Could he teach the boy to sing? In his heart of hearts, Kayin's worst fear was that his gift was just that and nothing more. A gift. Bred into him, like he was nothing more than a machine, capable of only spitting out his programing. The thought nauseated him. He'd taught quite a few kids how to play instuments, and some of them had become fairly proficient, but he'd never seen one of his students go beyond playing to entertain the family, or maybe taking requests in a tavern somewhere. He'd tried to teach Cameron how to play an instrument, but his older son hadn't been interested. The explanations and illustrations he'd thought were brilliant, interesting, absolutely _magnificent_ had fallen utterly flat before his child's apathy. But Emilio _wanted _to learn, and go far...

Yes, he could teach Emilio. And if the kid wanted to hemmorage brains with a high C, he'd teach him _that _too. To hell with Needles and their agreement! Needles had broken it himself by modifing the Nebraskas. He didn't deserve to die here, gifts unacknowledged. He'd teach Emilio; and when Sean was old enough, him too! He'd open up a school of music to the glory of his art!

Emilio, although slightly more perceptive than the average twelve year old, didn't realize that he had just been the cause of an epiphany. It was just as well, because Kayin's train of thought was becoming steadily scarier.

"Kid, can I teach you to _sing_? We're going to make you into the most marvelous voice on Stantal!"

Sean laughed.

* * *

The four of them sat around the table, staring at their cards. The game was a variation on the old Earth game of Texas Hold'em, and their poker faces were prefect. Amelia looked like she was freezing cold, but that was normal for her, even in the desert planet's summer. Kesskass almost pitied her. Pity was not an emotion he could feel, but the sight of her wrapped in three layers of clothing and still shuddering at the slightest breeze evoked _something_. 

Gazelle looked bored with the game and his opponents. It was a practiced look, perfected by countless years of nonchalance. In reality, he now held a full house, and was having to fight back a grin. The pot contained over two thousand double-dollars. This was a beautiful thing.

Kesskass didn't know what Gazelle was holding, but the man had just raised again. His boredom seemed too perfect for Kesskass to risk any more money on a pair. He placed his cards face down.

"Dealer folds," he said, ending the last round of betting.

The other three showed their personal cards. Gazelle grinned as he raked in the chips. Amelia scowled. Sisera looked at his hand lying on the table and sighed.

"That's simply awful," he hissed. "Are you trying to give him our money, Kesskass?"

"You know I can't afford to throw away cash, Sisera. We all lose sometimes."

"That's the sort of attitude I expect from humans. Annoying. Defeatist."

"Accompanied by hand gestures." Amelia continued for him, keeping her face as straight as possible.

"Bitch," Sisera responded, lifting a glass of water to his mouth with his foot. The act would have been fairly impressive had it not been preceeded by his playing cards. There was a long silence.

It was Gazelle who broke it first.

"Why is this necessary? What will it accomplish?"

"We aren't capable of understanding that," Kesskass replied. "We aren't worthy to stand in our master's presence, and certainly not to question him."

"Your master, not mine," Gazelle said, "I serve no one."

"Then... why are you here?"

"Because I have nothing better to do. But I am no servant, and I'll kill you if you say so again."

"I'd love to watch you try, old friend."

"Easy boys," Sisera responded, "we're here to discuss killing _them_." He jerked his head meaningfully towards the nearest window.

"You have a plan, Kesskass?" Amelia noted. "It could get messy if we just have a showdown in the town square."

"You're scared?" Gazelle laughed.

"Hardly," she said, "I want this to go as smoothly as possible."

"I haven't got any appointments. A showdown is good enough for me."

"Nevertheless," Kesskass stated, "we've got to destroy this town, and slaughter everyone in it. We could win a straight-up duel with Allegro and his lackeys, but it would probably end with one or more of us crippled or worse. And the Nebraska Pair are here too. They've been modified."

"So?" Gazelle mocked. "Modded humans are still just humans. Not _our_ calibre. Just a fun little bonus."

"Gazelle..." Kesskass warned.

"Sisera's right, it's your negative attitude that causes you to lose. Look at me. Cheerful, upbeat, and now," he gestured to the pile oif chips, "rolling in it. But I'll play along. What's your plan?"

Kesskass explained. The others listened carefully, and one by one began to grin.

* * *

One afternoon, Emilio came by Isabel's school to walk her home. He intended to talk to her about the Aria. Also, she was fun to hang out with, which probably counted for something. 

"So," she asked when he was done telling her about it, "how are we going to sing in Italian?"

"Kayin said he could teach us how to say the words, and what they meant..."

"But no one else will know what they mean."

"But _we_ will." Then, as an afterthought: "We can probably get Needles to print out programs."

"He'd do that?" Isabel asked.

"He's loaded," Emilio replied, "and he likes me. I can talk him into it." Isabel started to reply, then hesitated.

Finally she said, "What do you mean, 'he likes you'?"

He saw her unspoken question immediately.

"No, no no! Not like that! He isn't a pervert!"

"How do you know?"

"I just... I know. He likes me, but not like that."

They walked in silence for a while. Eventually, they reached Isabel's house.

"Will you do the show?" he asked, "I'd really like you to."

"Sure," she said. He beamed.

"All right! Talk to your Dad about when we can all meet at Kayin's, okay?"

"Okay." She walked inside, and Emilio turned towards home.

* * *

Vash had volunteered to help Emilio clean up the Globe. It needed it; things were strewn everywhere, and the place had become a sort of storage closet for some of the boy's unfinished work. 

While they worked, they talked. Emilio told Vash about the new play, and the plant told him about the time he'd stopped a drunken gunfighter from killing a barmaid by throwing a bottle at his head.

"That's awesome," Emilio said, "I wish I could do stuff like that."

"You don't want to do that."

"Yeah I do!"

"No you don't. It always scared me whenever I had to do things like that. I'm glad it's over."

"So," Emilio said, "you're never leaving this town again?"

"I don't want to," Vash said, "but you'll come with me if I go." Then the tone of his voice changed to one of mockery. "Or... would you rather stay here with Isssabelllll!"

"What are you talking about?" Emilio replied, feigning ignorance.

"I've seen the way you talk to her, Leo," the Stampede said, grinning. "You're in _LUV_!"

"I am not in love!"

"No, you aren't. You're in _LUV_. There's a difference."

"I am not!" the boy protested.

"Then why the big reaction?"

"Cause she's Isabel!"

"And?"

Emilio was very quiet. He swept the small building with such intensity that Vash thought he might have a stroke at any second. It was almost funny, but Vash could see that the boy wasn't amused. He spoke again.

"You don't have to be mad at about it. I was just teasing."

"I know," Emilio said, "you've done it before."

"You'd make a cute couple!"

"Would not!"

"Come on, aren't you a bit old to be scared of girls?"

"I'm not scared. But it'd be weird. What would the kids look like?"

They both laughed at this.

"Let's see," Vash mused, "they'd be strawberry-blonde," he ruffled Emilio's red hair, "blue-eyed, pale, but no freckles at all." He pretended to think for a minute, then looked down at Emilio and added, "and really _short._"

"Hey!" Emilio screamed.

"You're short."

"I'm gonna hit you!"

"Angry short guy on the loose! The carnage is incredible!"

* * *

"I think Emilio the Player is a great title," Kayin said. 

"I don't," Emilio said. The Player and his group were at the Bostalk residence learning to sing. Joseph was there providing snacks, and Emilio was tremendously embarassed.

"I think it's a fantastic stage name," Joseph added, "perfect for the grand guignol!" When everyone stared, he added.

"That's French for 'puppet show.' Thought I'd get in the Aria spirit!"

"But Mr. Triballus," Galpez said, "the _Aria of Don Giovanni_ is Italian."

Everyone laughed. But Isabel, who was feeling charitable, added:

"I think it could be a nice title for our act. Emilio and Company's Grand Guignol. What about you guys?"

* * *

"Forget everything bad I've ever said about you, Kesskass," Gazelle said. 

"A great burning..." Amelia murmured, "I'm going to stand in the fire and roast marshmallows."

"I'm going to amputate some limbs," Sisera chuckled. "I'll be bitter if I want to!"

Kesskass looked at them. Monsters through and through, not a redeeming feature to be found. Two weeks from today, they would slaughter three and a half thousand fairly innocent people. But in their defense, they'd been created for it.

Total slaughter. For a moment, Kesskass could smell the dust and blood and smoke of the battlefield.

"Our purpose?" he asked.

"Who the hell needs purpose!" they chanted back.

This was going to be fun.

* * *

PREVIEW: 

Emilio: Someone once told me that back on Earth, there were forests that needed fire to survive. The fires would burn away the undergrowth, the old and dead trees, and cause the seeds for the biggest trees to open. Everything burned paved the way for the next generation. But this fire isn't like that. It burns away everything healthy and leaves monsters. And over it all stands an evil man, laughing at...

NEXT CHAPTER: The Fall of Little Jericho


	8. The Fall of Little Jericho

Chapter 5: The Fall of Little Jericho

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't own the Holmcross, or Artificially Reborn Matricide machines. Remember that Wild Arms crossover I was talking about? Here it is. All the need to knows will be explained within the fic itself though, so no worries. 

Things I DO Own: Umm... See all those random extras? Yeah, they're mine, but you can have them if you want them that badly. Help yourself.

Author's Note: Sorry, I died, but I'm better now. I won't say, "the chapter will be out really soon" because every time I do that it tacks on a month to my writing time. I will however, apologize to my loyal readers for making them wait so long. And pray that I get more free time to work on this thing. Reviewer replies should be on my xanga by tomorrow.

I was tempted to revise a bit more, but I figured I'd taken too long as it was. Any constructive criticism here is more than welcome, so have no mercy.

Thanks for reading.

* * *

"No, not a demon. It looks like he was made by a human. He feels pain. He's a machine that feels pain. Why would anybody want to do that?" - Emma, _Wild Arms

* * *

_

We were made to kill. _Staccato's thoughts rang out to his younger siblings, literally filling the air with malice. He never spoke. He could have probably done so if he had tried, but his face was so disfigured that the words would have been almost unrecognizible. _We should have fun. Right? _The rest of the Bluesummers family was crowded around his wheelchair, so that he looked almost like a father telling his children a very gruesome bedtime story._

_"That makes sense," Legato said cautiously. It would be no good at all to get Staccato upset. A true child of bloodshed, Staccato tore apart the people assigned to deliver him from his artificial womb. He hadn't changed much since. He was of average intelligence, but his mind was not whole in any sense of the word. He was apt to stare at a wall for five hours, or rave on and on about his terrible lunch and how the chef should be killed (and it was unlikely that he meant it figuratively). Or he might seem perfectly calm and composed, except for his lips._

_They weren't there, so he looked like he was always snarling._

Of course it does, _Staccato continued. _If you can't enjoy your job, you'll always be unhappy. And anyone weak enough to be killed deserves to die. _He began to bark, or growl, or cough. The rest of the Bluesummers recognized it as his laughter_.

* * *

"How's it going?" Shinta asked his son. 

Galpaz made a rather noncommital grunt. Shinita tried again.

"C'mon kid, I know ya need a break." Galpez stared at his book, blinked, then finally looked up. The book was an interesting one, filled with descriptions of lost technology, and theories on how the devices had worked. Many grown men would have found it too technical to be a good read, but Galpez consumed books like this. His mind was full of grand ideas about how he would restore humanity to its former glory. At that age, Shinita had been working his way up through the ranks of his first gang. He wasn't sure if the kid would turn out any better than he had, but there was hope.

"Your mom took Yuuno shopping with her. You wanna get something to eat?"

"Sure." Galpez bookmarked his page and put the book down. "Where?"

"I was thinking we'd go to that burger place on 14th. Sound good?"

"Sounds _great._"

Later, while they sat in the back of the restaurant, which was nearly deserted at this time of day, Shinita tried to bring up the subject delicately. He failed.

"You ever heard of the Nebraska Pair, Galpez?"

"Yeah..." Galpez said. "Why?"

* * *

"How long will it take you?" Amelia asked. 

Kesskass looked up in annoyance.

"As long as I feel like taking. You can't rush this. Unless..." he paused for effect, "you want to be splattered all over Gunsmoke."

"Touchy," she said.

"This is a delicate process. Why don't you go make frost patterns on windows or something?"

She spat at him. It froze in midair with a crack and shattered against the back of his neck. He scowled, but said nothing. They were both silent for a while. Several times Amelia opened her mouth to say something, but stopped. Kesskass worked on getting the circle just right and waited for her to speak.

"Have you ever thought about just... giving it up?" she asked. "Just living as a human until something finally kills you?"

"No. If you're having second thoughts, tell me now."

"I'm not. But we _are _closing a door here. If Needles survives..."

"We'll be hunted. And?" He sounded iritated, in part because he _was_ iritated. It appeared that fully a quarter of his main attack force had cold feet (_Bad pun,_ he thought,_ really bad pun._).

"I know, I'm being stupid about it. Just nervous." She shivered a bit, and Kesskass sighed.

"We all get nervous. But you've got little to be nervous about. You're as strong as any of us, and stronger than quite a few." He looked up at her to see her reaction. Still shivering.

"You look cold," he said. "I've got some artificial logs if you want a fire."

"You don't have to do that," she said.

"You sure? I've got some spare blankets too, if you want them."

She gave in. "I'll take two. And I can start a fire if you tell me where the logs are."

"No," he said, "you'll put it out. I'll get it."

She sighed, and fell gratefully into an easy chair. Kesskass threw the blankets over her and got a fire going.

"You know," she said, "you can be really sweet, Kesskass."

"I know," he replied. Then he walked back to his desk to finish his work.

* * *

Gazelle the Peacemaker prepared for battle in his usual way. 

First he had a drink. This was crucial. A stiff triple. A normal human would've been affected by this. Gazelle needed twice the amount to get a buzz because of his super-advanced natural defenses (it was nice not to have to worry about illness, poison, etc... but he had to buy far more booze than was normal. The ordinary people he knew probably thought he was an alcoholic). The exact physical effect of the drink didn't matter, it was just a way of mentally preparing himself.

Second, he inspected his weaponry. It would be sloppy of him to have a misfire in the middle of a fight. He cleaned his twin revolvers. They were "mundane" hand cannons, but he was quite proud of them. Then he did the same for his Artificially Reborn Matricide machine. It was an irreplacable work of art. It wouldn't do to neglect it.

Finally, he meditated. He never prayed, because he disliked the idea of depending on a god. For that matter, he disliked depending on anyone but himself. He knew what _he_ was going to do. Others were unreliable at best and treacherous at worst. As for a loving god... well, he _knew _that was bullshit.

He used the pre-combat meditation technique taught to him long ago by Staccato Bluesummers. It was very similiar to ordinary meditation, with one major difference. He placed the Artificially Reborn Matricide on his lap. As he emptied his mind of concious thought, switches flipped deep within him.

And receptors in the thing on his lap activated in response to his psychic potential. He had nowhere near the power that allowed Legato to control hundreds bare-minded and manipulate the great flail Omerta, but he had enough to do this much. The Matricide was active. Then he exhaled, and disconnected from the machine. Then he inhaled, and it came back online. Back and forth it went.

Inhale, killing machine activated. Exhale, useless lump of metal. With each cycle, the process grew easier.

* * *

Some people talked to themselves to get their thoughts straight. For Emilio, this wasn't neccessary, as he had Leonof. He sat in his room with the lights off long after he should have been asleep and whispered a conversation with the puppet. 

"He thinks I _like_ her! She's cute, yeah, but she's Isabel!"

Leonof questioned his meaning.

"She's like my big sister or something..."

Leonof replied to the effect that Isabel was not, in fact, related to him in any way whatsoever, and that siblings usually fought more often about stupid little things.

"Well, no, she's not. And I do like her just a little. But I'm not in love."

Leonof sniggered at the denial.

"Quit taking his side!"

* * *

As his son talked about feelings with a marionette, Joseph lay awake in his bed. His wife slept next to him, snoring softly. He envied her. It didn't feel like he'd be getting any rest tonight. He was worried about Emilio. 

His only son. Mature, quiet, dignified, and obsessed with puppets. Incredibly smart and talented. People loved him. The boy was a prodigy. But... the boy had his creepy moments. Joseph had once heard him talk to Leonof. Not even in a cute "playing with dolls" voice (which would have been embarassing enough), but in a completely normal tone of voice. He had never done it in public as far as the baker knew, but it was unnerving.

Once, Joseph had found a book on classical artists. He'd read it to expand his cultural horizions (actually, he'd just been really bored, but Maria had suggested the book, and he'd gone along with it). He didn't remember much about it, except for the man who'd cut his own ear off and tried to give it to his girlfriend.

Emilio wasn't crazy. Joseph was sure of that much. But there was something eccentric about him. Of course he was still pretty young, his personality wasn't concrete yet. But the puppets had been a part of his life for five years. It could no longer really be called a phase.

Maria thought their son was brilliance incarnate. He was already making money at his age ("Can you imagine what he'll do if he keeps going with this?" she'd asked her husband one night). There was a theater in December that actors could make a very good living working at. His sculptures were getting better. He was wonderful with his puppets. So just what was Joseph worried about? Art was a hard profession to make it in, but if their son could, he'd be spared the worst of life on Stantal, the planet many now simply called Gunsmoke.

He'd have a talk with Emilio soon. It wasn't as if Emilio was violent or anything. Just eccentric, and it could be channeled into wonderful possiblities. A talk about reality versus fantasy was in order. It would be kind and understanding and not at all down on Emilio's apparent career choice. And at the end of it, Emilio would nod and say that yes, he'd been acting silly because he hadn't known it concerned his father. Everything would be fine.

Joseph finally went to sleep, unaware that Emilio was talking to his favorite marionette again.

* * *

The next day was fairly pleasant. It was a Friday. People who were fortunate enough to have Saturdays off were getting ready for the weekend. It was spring in Little Jericho, and the weather was good, making plenty of weekend cookouts likely. On a more hospitable planet, this would have been a good time to take the family camping. In short, it was the sort of day that made the sandy planet's inhabitants forget that they were stranded thousands of of light years away from their homeworld. 

Kesskass stood on his porch and looked at the city with detached amusement. Time was up for these sad creatures. He felt no guilt or regret. Why would he?

Gazelle stopped by to confirm his part in the plan one last time before setting out. Sisera had done nothing of the sort, but was fairly reliable; he was probably crouched on a roof somewhere waiting for the signal. It wasn't as if they had to worry about sunburn.

Amelia was at the house with him. She had removed her extra layers of clothing, and the result wasn't model material. Years of long sleeves and gloves had made her complexion pasty with the exception of her face. She was five foot eight inches tall and horribly thin for that (the word "gaunt," though dramatic, would not have been out of place). Her dark hair was short and unkempt. Had she not been so deadly, he might have felt slightly sorry for her.

* * *

Allegro Bluesummers was praying. He wondered if his gun was praying too. It was a possibility. 

"Needles," Gelton said, standing at the door, "A large group of bandits has been spotted heading toward town. They'll be here within twenty minutes."

Needles did not react.

"Where do you want to wait for them?" Gelton asked.

"Beside the plaza. We'll use the loudspeakers they put in for the festival two years ago." Needles said. "Is Kayin ready?"

"Yeah, just getting his wife and kids tucked away."

"They'll be safe here." Needles ran his fingers over his gun, then loaded it. "Why wouldn't they be? They'll have Raymond here, and the vault is indestructible by even _our _standards. Those wretches should know what the penalty for treason is. And hiring humans to do dirty work for them..." Needles stopped speaking, but Gelton knew what he was thinking. It was disgusting, involving humans, in a... what was this? A coup? The first step in an attempt at world domination?

Whatever it was, it was going to end messily. Needles was upset. Gelton, who knew him better then anyone, had recognized Twitch Number Fourteen. Fourteen was hard to discribe (Raymond had once called it, "that thing he does where all his knuckles just_ crack _at the same time, and then he sorta does a head-bob that looks a bit like a hyperactive cockroach"), but it meant that he was going to forget about being Christ-like for a little while.

The two of them were silent for a moment. Then Needles raised his head.

"Ah Kayin," Needles said, "we were just talking about you. Get to the names on this list and have them here in twenty minutes. Don't go through the plaza.

Kayin took the piece of paper shoved at him and unfolded it. "People We Can't Afford to Let Die?" he read aloud.

"You've mastered reading," Needles mocked. "That's wonderful. I'd hurry up if I were you. You can use my car if you like."

"Yes sir," Kayin said, adding a brief bow before he ran off. Needles almost grinned before he realized that he'd been called "sir." A chill ran through him.

_So, I'm a "Sir" again. That means that I'm about to set myself back another thousand years. There's no excuse for enjoying murder, even if the people you're killing deserve death. _

_I'm disgusting.

* * *

_

As they charged Little Jericho, the bandits Kesskass had hired were praising their good fortune. There were more than four hundred of them, hired from several different bands of thieves. They all had a couple of things in common.

One, they were ruthless, evil men, willing to do anything for money. In this case, anything meant run through town with guns blazing, causing chaos. According to their employer, a vault beneath the town's main bank was currently being used to store eighty million double-dollars en route to December. The masterminds had assured them all that even the lowliest hireling would come out of Little Jericho twenty thousand double-dollars richer then he went in. They were simply needed to cause mass chaos while a team went in to get the suddenly defenseless money.

Two, they were stupid. Brutally stupid. Kesskass hadn't had to put much effort into making the papers recording the money's movement look authentic; the idiots had chomped at the bit to get in on the deal as soon as they heard about it. They were perfectly willing to accept the idea that the money existed, that Bernardelli had insured it, and as such had an armed death squad protecting it. They were, like most humans, convinced that they were important and needed. As such, they were gullible. Their demise would be no loss.

They'd been told to concentrate their attack on armed resistance, occasional firing off a random shot at something to cause panic. Kesskass had given them a massive amount of firepower to distribute amongst themselves as they saw fit. It would have been a perfect plan in the hands of a hundred more like himself, but he didn't trust humans with it. That was where Phase Two came in.

The bandits weren't told about Phase Two. It was going to be a very nasty surprise.

* * *

It was ten minutes before the end of their world, and the people of Little Jericho were going on as always. The invaders would not be sighted by human eyes for another five minutes. 

"Are your weapons loaded?" Kayin asked conversationally. "If not, this could be a very short last stand against the forces of darkness."

"Are my weapons loaded?" Shinita asked sarcastically. "No, of course not. I was planning to club them to death. Bullets are for the weak."

Kayin laughed. Shinita then realized that those were probably Kayin's sentiments exactly.

"My children will be safe with you, right?" he asked.

"Of course," Kayin replied, "now get in the car. We've got to pick up Isabel and Emilio before the fighting starts."

Miranda looked thoughtful. She'd been quiet as Kayin had explained their predicament, but now she had a question.

"What happens to you after this? If you use your abilities in front of any survivors…" She didn't finish. She didn't need to.

"I expect," Kayin said, "that they'll be grateful enough to keep a secret." He turned to Galpez and Yuuno. "You guys ready to go?"

They nodded. Galpez was still trying to digest the fact that his dad was a wanted criminal.

"Alright, in the car. Just try and squeeze in once we get Emilio and Isabel, okay?"

They were in and moving within seconds, heading for the Triballus residence. By Kayin's estimate, he was half a minute ahead of the schedule he'd set for himself.

Then Sisera landed on the roof of the car.

"What's up, Kayin!" he yelled as he dug into the vehicle's roof. "Doing well? How's the family?"

"Damnit!" Kayin swerved franticly to dislodge him.

"Come on," Sisera shrieked, "I need a warmup before the real fighting starts! Get out!"

"Shinita," Kayin said, "as soon as I'm out, drive like hell until you get to Isabel's school, then the Triballus house. Soon as you've got them, head to Allegro's. I'll catch up."

With those sage words, Kayin suddenly hit the brakes and jumped out of the car.

* * *

As Kayin faced down Sisera, the world ended. 

Little Jericho was a small town. It didn't have a lot of money. There weren't a lot of valubles that anyone would want. Therefore, the last thing the town's policeforce had been expecting was a full scale assault by bandits who seemed bent on taking it over.

The town hadn't been careless. No one would have seen it coming. This was the first time anything of this nature had been attempted on Gunsmoke.

The sheriff and his deputies had risen to face the challenge, though they didn't do much good. They were shot dead in the first five minutes of the conflict. This was probably a blessing for them, considering the further horrors the day would bring.

Kesskass' instuctions had been to cause chaos on a massive scale, something the bandits did well.The citizens for the most part sealed themselves in their houses, and those who were braver were blown away without mercy. When the streets were cleared of visible targets, they started to trash random buildings, feeling that this was the best way to continue the aforementioned chaos. What wasn't thrown into bags to be carried off was destroyed.

However, this joyous romp of destruction was interupted by a disquieting message, delivered over loudspeakers. Little Jericho was only about seven miles in diameter, and most of the bandits, now that the assult on the residential areas had been concluded, were now converging on the center of town, where all the stores were located. So, out of the 417 thugs tearing the city apart, 372 heard the following message.

"IF YOU'RE NOT TOO CHICKENSHIT TO TAKE ON SOMEONE WHO CAN FIGHT BACK, MEET ME IN THE PLAZA! THAT'S THE SQUARE IN THE CENTER OF TOWN, YOU WORTHLESS WASTES OF GOOD OXYGEN! I WILL REPEAT: I AM IN THE PLAZA, AND I AM BETTING AS MUCH MONEY AS YOU COULD POSSIBLY WANT THAT MY FRIEND AND I CAN KILL YOU ALL! YOU VERSUS _JUST THE TWO OF US!_"

The loudspeaker went silent. The thieves stared. This certainly fell under their orders. And they were not, on the whole, the sort of men who could ignore insults. Many of them were not literate enough to know what oxygen was, but being called a waste of it was simply too much. Guns in hand, they converged on the plaza.

"Do you think they'll come?" Gelton asked.

"Not all of them, but enough," Needles said. "We can hunt down the rest."

He put on his fedora. He'd been assured it looked good on him.

"I'll kill them quickly. No suffering."

Gelton had private doubts about this. People tended to suffer when Needles was upset. Generally right before the instant death. Gelton however, had not gotten to his current age by disagreeing with his best pal and sworn leader.

"Should we go out to meet them?" Gelton questioned.

"Yes. If you get shot in the head, we'll get an early psychological advantage." That sounded much more sarcastic than it actually was.

The two walked out of town hall, Gelton in the lead. One of the bandits fired a warning shot.

"You guys got some nerve," the man snarled. "You _wanna_ die?"

"I take it you are the leader?" Needles asked.

"I'm one of the bosses, yeah, and..." the thug paused, realizing something. "What's with the glasses? You _blind_!"

"I'm visually impaired, yes. Allow me to introduce myself. Allegro Bluesummers, the Blindman Needles. General of the Holmcross, Commander of Holmcross Division Zero. My serial number is BL-00003."

"That's impressive," the man said, grinning, "that a blind guy and his buddy think they can beat us all. I'm so scared. Oh God, I always meant to be a good boy, please take me unto Heaven when this monster has kilt me dead!" He laughed. His cronies followed suit.

"I am Gelton Kojiro, the Vanbrace," Gelton said, "Colonel of Holmcross Divsion Zero. My serial number is DF-05367. Your disrespect is unadvisable. If you put down your weapons, we will spare you, but once the fight begins, there will be no mercy, even to those who attempt surrender."

The leader laughed again. "They've even got real fake titles! This has been fun, but I'm gonna have to kill you no-"

Needles shot him in the gut. He screamed. As his men lifted their guns in response, Needles fired the gun's remaining eight shots. Eight men fell.

"Show them that we are legitimate, Gelton."

The front row of bandits opened fire.Gelton stepped in front of Needles and stood there. The roar of gunfire was deafening. Gelton did not move. The gunfire continued. Gelton shielded his relatively vunerable eyes with his hands. He did not fall.

After about half of the ammo in their guns had been used, the bandits realized that something was terribly wrong. A few of them ran. Gelton uncovered his face and removed his coat. His shirt showed the bullet holes much better. The bloody bullet holes. The bloody bullet holes, and the bullets that were being pushed back out of them as his flesh regenerated.

"You know," he said thoughtfully, "you really should have brought some hollow-points. Normal ammo just doesn't make a big enough hole, you know?"

He drew his rifle.

Actually, drew is a bad word. He slung it into position over his left hip. Then, he _launched_ the rifle. Men flew back. They considerately waited until they were out of the way to bleed. Their wounds were mortal for the most part, which was to be expected, given that anyone within fifteen feet of Gelton had just taken a hit from a very heavy bayonet that began just in front of the gun's trigger and extended to two feet beyond the barrel. And the speed at which it had been drawn...

Very few men existed with the fortitude needed to survive a hit from something moving faster than the speed of sound, and fewer still could survive that same strike from a blade.

Then Gelton started shooting.

* * *

Sisera and Kayin beat the hell out of each other with gusto. They didn't even look up when the screaming started. Kayin, being without a weapon, was disadvantaged, but he was making due. 

Needles had exaggerated the musician's abilites a bit when taking to Knives. It was true that Kayin could pick almost any instrument up and play with little trouble, but he was only good at killing with seven of them. His voice was one of the seven, and it was not his favorite. Channeling murder music through his lungs and voice box directly was horribly painful, and strained his own regeneration abilities (which were not nearly as great as Gelton's). Five minutes into their "warmup," Kayin's body ached. He gasped for breath, which hurt even more.

Sisera giggled. He was a strange opponent. Not very tall. His legs were double-jointed, and he had been born armless. He had learned to do without an upper set of limbs however, and his balance was superb. When he fought, he looked decidedly serpentine.

Stronger men than Kayin had underestimated Sisera and died for it. It was definately worth remembering that the blades on his boots were not simply accessories. When one had to make due with a single pair of limbs for all uses, that pair of limbs became strong. Very strong. And he was fast.

So far the musician had managed to hold him off. The look on Sisera's face suggested that this would be a very temporary state of affairs.

"You know," Sisera said, "I can't believe you forgot your harmonica. I thought you always had it with you. This isn't fun."

Kayin took advantage of the lull in the fight to rest his body.

"Why can't you believe it?" he asked. _Keep him talking, hit him again once I've healed a bit._

"Because you were the consummate warrior once, Kayin. I simply couldn't imagine you being caught off guard."

"Because I worked with Staccato?"

Sisera said nothing.

"Is Gazelle here?" Kayin asked, "I'd like to see him again. Catch up on old times and all that."

"Yes, he's here. If you had Elendira with you, the three of you could have a good old time. Play cards, discuss politics, have a circle-jerk... It'd be _fun_."

"Pity I'm married isn't it?" Kayin asked.

"Yeah... That actually confused me."

The musician leaned in closer. "Why? Were you looking for a date? Sorry to disappoint. But I know a nice man here in town who's looking for love; I could introduce you..."

Sisera spat.

"Or not..." Kayin said. Then he sang.

* * *

The Triballus family took cover under a bed for the first five minutes of the attack. Then they heard a familiar voice calling them out. 

"Hey guys, it's me, Shinita! Don't shoot, I mean no harm!"

Joseph crawled out first. Shinita was standing in the living room, doing his best to look non-threatening. This effort was hindered somewhat by the large shotgun he was holding. The baker stared.

"Come on, I got Isabel and my kids in the car, we can't leave 'em waiting!"

"What?" The baker was slightly confused.

"We're going to Allegro's house," Shinita said. "We'll be safe there. Now _come on!_"

"How will we be any safer there?"

"Just hurry, damnit!"

Joseph quit arguing. Shinita was tempermental at the best of times, and at the moment he had a shotgun.

* * *

Amelia demolished the front door of an unsuspecting house with a single kick. This would have been a shocking event if the person kicking had been large and well-muscled. Such a person, while not expected to go around kicking doors in, would at least be considered physically capable of it. 

Amelia, however, looked something like a concentration camp survivor who'd been fed extra scraps by the guards. She was not quite a walking skeleton, but the word "sickly" would have been universally agreed on by people describing her. Seeing her casually kick down a door was a bit like watching a field mouse brutally maul someone's throat.

Her hands were cold. She needed someone to warm them.

A man with a rifle rushed out to confront her, but paused when he saw the frail, unarmed woman. This was his first and last mistake. She leapt on him. There were the beginings of a scream, cut off by a very final crunch.

Amelia felt a bit better. She looked up. A boy of about five was watching her from the hallway. He was crying.

"Are you scared kid? You shouldn't be. People go to sleep all the time. It doesn't hurt." She walked toward him, arms outstreched.

"My daddy always said Mama was in Heaven with God."

Amelia smiled.

"There is no God. No Heaven. Just... sleep." The boy's eye widened, but Amelia grabbed him before he could cry.

There was no pain for him, just a lot of cold before his nerves froze. His vitals were ice cold less than a second after that. His blood vessels bulged slightly out of his skin because blood is mostly water, and water expands when frozen, but he hadn't been alive to feel that horror. Amelia congratulated herself on a clean kill, with a minimum of suffering inflicted.

Her hands were only slighly warmer, and she could feel no other strong sources of heat in the house. She moved on.

* * *

His initial feeling of bravado wearing off, Needles was forced to admit that perhaps charging when outnumbered two hundred to one had not been one of his best plans. He was nearly out of ammo. Humans were fragile, but they still took a bullet apiece. 

For their part, the bandits had scattered after Gelton's initial charge. In a true case of survival of the fittest, only the most foolhardy of them had elected to stay within melee range of a creature that could shrug off bullets. Not knowing what else to do, the survivors had taken cover and continued the attack.

Gelton was looking rather skinless. Even if one's flesh was nearly as good at stopping projectiles as a kevlar vest and healed at an accelerated rate, there were only so many shots to the chest one could take. And Allegro wasn't helping any either. Admittedly, the handgun he carried was a good one, but he was having to reload too often. Currently, he was backed up against a wall, trying to load his fourteenth clip while Gelton flew across the battlefield, blasting at far off opponents and whipping his baynonet into anything closer than twenty feet away.

"Come on Needles!" Gelton screamed. "Kill them all! No mercy, remember!"

His battlecry was puncuated by him taking another burst of ammunition. Needles holstered his gun.

_"Heh. I suppose I'll have to use my hands."_

His fingers cracked. The lastest man to wound Gelton fell dead. He could no longer see his handiwork, but he knew the body would already be beginning to bloat.

His fingers cracked again. A thousand years of progress slipped away as he reverted to the basic, horrible core of his existence.

His fingers cracked again. Allegro's namesakes, dozens of needles, each hair thin but as sharp as razors, flew across the battlefield, cutting into anything unfortunate enough to be in their way.

Needles charged.

* * *

"Master Knives!" 

Knives looked up from his work. It wasn't often that Legato's voice lost its signature stoic tone, and when it did, it usually paid to listen to him. Legato bowed before him.

"There has been an attack on the town of Little Jericho. I am requesting permission to aid the defenders, to show our noninvolvement in the assault. I can be in the city within three hours of your command, Master."

"You mean," the plant said slowly, "you want to save your brother?"

"It is a legitimate possibility that if he survives, he will carry out his threat to counterattack your siblings. Also, there is a slim chance that this will have changed his mind concerning our eventual goals."

Knives stared at his servant for a moment.

"How do you know all this?"

"I felt it. My empathic link to my brother alerted me to his distress."

_"Is that all, Legato?" _Knives thought,_ "Somehow, I very much doubt it."_

What he actually said to Legato was:

"Elendira will go with you. I can't allow you to be killed for something like this."

Legato nodded gratefully.

* * *

PREVIEW: 

Vash the Stampede: They say that war makes for strange bedfellows. The true nature of the man fighting beside me is that of a merciless killer. But he is a merciless killer on my side, and together we stand against the monsters that surround us. Our homes are burning, our friends are dying, and we couldn't be more different, but only with the help of each other can we stop the world from ending in...

NEXT CHAPTER: FIRE AND ICE (I: THE LESSER EVIL)


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